


The song remains the same

by AmyWilldo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Character Death, F/F, F/M, Good Morgana (Merlin), Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Merthur - Freeform, Morgana Knows about Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Pining, Resurrection, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 114,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27752575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyWilldo/pseuds/AmyWilldo
Summary: Uther's Bane is done. Uther knows it, Arthur knows it, but no one wants to be the one to call it. Things have been sliding towards wrong in the band for the last couple of seasons, but Uther knows what he wants is right, and what Uther wants is for nothing to change. After all, they're still dominating the charts, so why stop before the public's had enough?Merlin knows they can be good. Merlin knows Arthur can be better.
Relationships: Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Lancelot du Lac/Arthur Pendragon, Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 31





	1. Sound booth blues

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions for trope incorporation gratefully received

It’s not quite right, he thinks, and who is he to think it? Perhaps he shouldn’t. He’s probably not meant to be back here anyway, snuck in the sound booth while Gaius isn’t looking. It’s much bigger than the one in Cardiff, and the one he has in the shed out the back of mam’s in Ealdor is a shrimp, a minnow, but it calls him just the same. He knows, he knows that if he just brings this a half tone lower, draws the drum to the fore, and mellows out the reediness of the sax on its stupid solo just a smidge, mutes the blaring bagpipes – bagpipes? – to a point where they fit, and slows that rushing bass so that it’s a rumble, the whole will be harmonious, and when he plays it back, he knows it. 

That voice, though, the backing baritone, not the lead. It hits him somewhere in the lower part of his body and has him thinking about home, and heavens and better places than London. A memory, a good one, that he can’t quite recall. The lead’s on pitch or thereabouts, belting out the indifferent lyrics in a decent baritone, shouting half of them, drowning everything else in its conviction. It’s not his music, but it is very definitely going to smash the charts. Like everything else the Bane has done in the last twenty years. It’s what they do. It’s to be expected. Yet, if you asked him, and why anyone would ask a twenty something year old nobody from Wales is beyond him, but if you asked him, he’d say it’s past it, a metal band like this. All that hair? All those moody sax solos? Come on. I mean, come on. Let there be music, in the music. That backing voice would know what he was talking about. Whoever he is.

Fuck it. He ups the backing voice in the mix. It can take it. Otherwise it’s just all angry shouting. 

The console’s an older model, number KIL something. He sets up a new drive M, and does a little, just a little of his special encryption just in case, and saves the mix to there, so he has it. It doesn’t hurt to hide. Uncle Gaius won’t know, and if he doesn’t know, no one else will. There, it’s done. It’s a decent model, though it’s been bashed around the edges. Showing its age, a bit. Stains, and scars, but it’s a powerhorse, it’ll last them all out. There’s a fault that some of them have, because the wiring’s shoved all together, it shorts, it fritzes now and then, and it did sting him a couple of times. Nothing to worry about, he’s had worse. But if he can fix it, he should, surely. Uncle Gaius wouldn’t mind. In fact, he’d probably thank him. He’ll just have a look. A little one. He’s the little screwdriver on his belt, surely?

He does. There’s a world of its own under the desk. Whole empires of spiders have grown up and fallen away since the last time it was cleaned. It’s a good thing he’s not squeamish. Also that the spiders themselves have moved out of his way. He prefers not to squish, if he doesn’t have to.

Removes the cord from the power socket, because mama Hunith didn’t raise no fool, and gets to work.

Of which there’s a lot. Uncle Gaius has obviously been too busy, or not been bothered with the basics. There’s some basics to be attended to, and then there’s some of his own stuff that he throws in, just to help old KIL along, and he loses himself, like he always does, in the work. It could have been a minute, it could have been a thousand years, but the next thing he knows is a firm grip on his ankles, and he’s being yanked out from under, and his shirt rucks up under his armpits, and he’s certain there’s rugburn on his back. 

“Without even a drink in me? What kind of – “ and he sputters to a stop.

There’s a pair of blue eyes on him, blond towheaded hair to it, and a crooked grin, currently accompanied by a raised eyebrow. The owner’s crouched down, hands still on his ankles, just this side of uncomfortable, and there’s a bunch of bigger guys stood over him. Merlin rethinks all his life choices. Rapidly. There’s laughter in the blue eyes, though. Something familiar about them.

“Lads,” the crooked grin’s saying. “Don’t remember asking for organic sound amplification, but that’s the only explanation for those ears. Only a mother could love them, or a radar dish. Am I right or am I right?”

There’s jovial laddy laughter of the kind Merlin’s encountered every time his head’s gone up over the parapet, and Merlin’s obscurely disappointed, and he shouldn’t have had any expectations of anything better, fool that he is. The crooked grin’s watching him, closely, despite the rest of them continuing to bray, and Merlin keeps a fixed smile on his face, just in case. Nothing to see here, just a harmless Welshman who’s fixing a sound deck. Just me.

“Well,” he says gamely, taking a wild stab in the dark, “your sister thought they did alright as handlebars last night, that’s all I know.”

Predictably, the lads love it. “Morgs would an all, you know,” one says, and another’s making a gesture with his fingers and tongue that Merlin would really prefer he didn’t, and all the while, crooked grin’s hands are tightening on his ankles to just the other side of comfortable, while his grin increases in force, although his eyes are telling a whole other story of something like anger, Merlin’s guessing.

“Look,” says crooked grin at length. “You just can’t talk that way about my sister.”

His accent’s resolved into something all too upper class. Don’t tread on the grass. Stay in your lane. Stay in your box. Don’t let anyone find out, Merlin. It’s not safe.

“Oh,” says Merlin, knowing it’s a mistake as he says it. “I meant to say, ‘that’s all I know, my lord’.” Throws a cheeky grin back at him, even as the laughter escalates.

Blondie looks somewhere between shocked and amused. Merlin can feel his thumbs, callouses and all, firm against his tendons, just the same place where Achilles was held, and he tells his body to stop giving him extra information that he doesn’t need right now, it’s distracting.

“Do you even know who I am? No, forget that. Who the fuck,” blondie’s saying, and Merlin can feel himself flushing, “are you? And what the fuck are you doing in our sound booth? If you’ve lost us anything, I swear, I’ll take you apart.”

“I haven’t – I mean I wasn’t – I mean –“ Merlin stammers out. There’s a sea of faces now, behind the blond one, and he’s honestly not sure how he’s going to get himself out now, and he focuses on the blue. Breathes in, and out. He must look like a right mad thing, covered in webbing, and he can’t even remember which shirt he has on. A TMBG one? Underworld? Starts again. “I’m Merlin.”

“Well, Merlin,” says the grin. “Get the fuck out of this booth. You’ve got till the count of ten.”

Ah, but Merlin knows this game only too well from the playground. You’ve never actually got till the count of ten. You’ve got nothing. Change the game.

“Not finished yet, am I? Old Killy here, needs the old electrons. A bit more spit and polish. I’m good at that. Just ask my uncle – “

“Merlin,” says a voice he’s not heard for five years, and he looks up to see the uncle in question. “What in blazes are you doing here? You’re not due until Wednesday.”

As one teutonic mob, the blokes all look at their watches, all but crooked grin, who doesn’t stop, if Merlin’s right, looking at him. Then they all look back at Gaius. “It’s Wednesday,” says one. “Yeah, Gaius. Lay off the weed,” and laughs like a drain. “Wednesdays, man,” and they trickle out of the sound booth, leaving Gaius, looking disapproving, and Merlin, flat on his back, pulling down his shirt, and his ankles still being held tight. Like, where is he going to go? Through the floor?

“Arthur,” says Gaius. “I see you’ve met Merlin. Perhaps you’d be so good as to release him? I assure you, the person Merlin’s most a danger to is himself.”

His ankles are released, and Arthur stands up, ostentatiously wiping his hands down his jeans. Suddenly, it seems too much effort to stand up. “Nice to meet you, I’m sure,” he says, and then scuttles himself back under the sound deck, “you prat,” he mumbles from a distance he’s fairly certain is safe. Plugs Killy back in, and there’s only the mildest of purrs as the sound deck powers up, and he beams as he squirms back out.

Arthur is still staring him down, like that’s going to make any difference. “What,” he says, “is Merlin doing in our sound booth, Gaius?”

“I’m here,” begins Merlin, and is cut off immediately. 

“Merlin is my nephew. He’s come to help on the new album. And if that goes well, on the tour. Your father thinks I’m getting old.”

Arthur makes a face. “You are old, Gaius. So’s he. Didn’t see either of you turning in any earlier last night than usual and I bet the bottle count in the corner’s just the same. Give it a rest, eh? I suppose he can stay, just don’t let him break anything.” He waves his hands vaguely in Merlin’s direction, and turns his back on them both, hand on the booth door to leave.

Which is when, Merlin’s luck being Merlin’s luck, KIL powers on, and powers up, and his mix sings out in the sudden quiet. He can see Arthur’s back straighten to the bagpipes, now sitting neatly alongside the guitars, playing nicely together like good children should instead of brawling like unruly chickens like they were. Gaius is looking at him, he knows, can feel it on the side of his face, and he’ll apologise later, if he has to, but he’s waiting for the moment when the voices come in.

The voices sing out as they should, on equal footing. It works, they’re working together, just as he thought they would, and he’s beaming for it, which is why he’s surprised when Arthur turns, and doesn’t look at him, only at Gaius, and with no trace of that crooked grin. “Put it back how it was. That’s not Bane. I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s good, is what,” Merlin finds himself saying, “You clotpole. It’s music. Which is more than what I can say it was to start with.”

He’s not expecting Arthur’s hands to be grabbing his shirt, and half lifting him off the floor, which is easier said than done, Merlin’s no lightweight no matter that he looks like a wet cat in the rain, and he’s not expecting Arthur to be so close to his face and so angry, or to be so angry in return.

“It’s not Bane. It’s not my band. It’s not my sound. Now. Put it back. Do I make myself clear Merlin? I would have thought, with those ears of yours, you would have heard me right. Perhaps it’s what’s between them that’s causing the trouble.” He releases the shirt, and Merlin drops down into his shoes, breathless. Arthur pats the shirt back down, hot hands against his chest, and picks some cobwebs off Merlin’s hair. “It’s not bad,” he says, in a more conciliatory manner, taking a step back. “It’s just not Bane.”

With that, he’s actually gone. Merlin can still hear the track playing, if he thinks to, until Gaius with a gesture turns KIL off. 

“A fine start you’ve made, Merlin. You certainly have a talent, a talent for getting yourself into hot water, and no mistake.” There’s more of the same, and an explanation of Uther Pendragon’s temper, and rigidity of musical taste, and a lecture about proper sound booth behaviour and a warning about so many things that they all blur into one, and Merlin starts nodding, and agreeing at random intervals whenever Gaius takes a breath, until he eases to a halt, and Merlin finds the sound booth locked behind them, and himself in a café with a sandwich in hand half eaten and no memory of the past half hour, stuck on blue eyes and a crooked grin, and a melody he can’t quite hear. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by:  
> Thunderstruck (AC/DC)  
> We Stand As One (Wishbone Ash)  
> You're the Voice (John Farnham)


	2. Quiet before the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a tour bus.

“Stop. Stop. That’s a hot mess and a half. Ag, you sound like a fuzzy panda. Leon, a slug has better precision than you’re managing this morning. Beat your meat at home, and beat the drums here. Val, I don’t know what you were doing with your fingers but it wasn’t playing the guitar. Owain, Lot, you might as well not be here for all the good you’re doing. And Arthur?” 

Merlin couldn’t quite see from the sound booth. Closing his eyes, though, he could picture it. It would be the same as every other rehearsal. First half hour, indifferent strumming around, while the hangovers wore off. Arthur’s headphones in, power off, playing tunes no one else could hear, until Uther plucked one out and commenced the roll call aka the putting everyone in their place, and killing any joy that anyone might have ever felt, ever, and got them into the right frame of mind to play Bane brand angry rock. And Arthur’s mouth would get this tight buttoned thing happening, and that shut down expression in his eyes and the thing that he’d be doing where he’d be rocking out to his own tune, emphatic facial expressions, and hip gestures and eyes screwed shut off in his own private wherever, all of that would just stop like it had never happened in the first place. Every rehearsal.

And then Arthur would wait, and take whatever slapdown Uther had for him. Face like a null. 

Merlin tuned back out again. There was work to be done, again, on old KIL, who’d decided to object to the bass being recorded, and had determined it could be improved with a little static, which it could not. At least, now, it wasn’t dusty underneath, and the wiring was after a good couple of months of attending to its every whim, familiar in its grouchiness and a welcome distraction from Uther. Besides, it’d be the same tune in a different key. Not enough authority. Not enough direction. Too much flourish. Stick to the mission. Follow his lead. 

Then, while Uther continued to shout the band into what he regarded as Bane shape, Merlin would run the tiniest of little programs on ol’ KILly, and do the tiniest of little enhancing, and bippity boppity boop, he’d have what Arthur was playing. Not the Bane stuff. The real stuff. He wouldn’t have bothered, except that the first day, the very first one after the incident with the ankles, Arthur had forgotten his headphones, and Merlin had been down under the sound booth, and Merlin had swear to gods chills. Then he’d wondered. And then he’d played around a bit. And stripped his vocals out of the mixer. And he may have made some cuts. Some little things. A couple of bass tracks from players from back home, some horns, and then some little bits and pieces he’d been playing around with. And then, somehow the whole was more than all the parts he’d woven, a better shinier thing that no one could have guessed at looking at Arthur playing with his stupid lip bitten, and his stupid bright blue eyes screwed shut and his earphones in. It was a thing of beauty with Arthur’s music at the lead that had to be set free. 

A thing of beauty which he might have released back home in Wales. 

Which may have charted pretty well.

Yet to actually discuss this with Arthur, too, but it’s hard to tell someone that they have a future career away from their frankly insane father when they don’t appear to like you very much, so there’s that then. Case in point.

That wire there, perhaps if it went on a different path, a slightly more circuitous one, then ol KIL would be less tempted. He’d just need to do a little bit of pushing, both with his fingers, and with his other talents, and he’d have it done. Only, it was a little stuck. He’d have to focus. And focus he did. His fingers hurt, and his nose itched and yet he was determined. And ol’ KIL bit him a little, with the tiniest of shocks, and he persisted. It was destiny. He would have this fixed, if it ‘twere the last thing he did, ‘ere he perish in the attempt. For he was Merlin, first and last of his name, and his will was as great as that of an ancient soundbooth, he swore, and he would triumph, aye, he would, and there! The damn thing, with a little combination of elbow grease, and the thing he wasn’t allowed to talk about, had come good. A feeling of joyous satisfaction washed over him, as he imagined it must have washed over the knights of old, although he could not quite imagine himself into the role.  
It was at that moment of joy that he felt firm hot hands grab at his ankles, and swiftly yank him out. It was if the owner of the firm hot hands took especial joy in taking him by surprise, for he did it so often, that the carpet burn was a familiar sensation. 

“Skiving off again, Merlin? Catching up on your sleep when you should be working? Typical.” Arthur frowned down at him, crouching over the legs he’d now extricated. “Father’ll have your head if you didn’t get that last one. Surely even a numbskull like you can manage to flip a couple of switches.”

It was a trifle hard to concentrate, under the quelling look, and the shadow of the hot hands on his ankles, on ensuring that despite the lack of power and the fiddling with the wiring, KIL had managed to in fact get that last one. But he had. 

“For what it’s worth, it’s there. The same as all the others. I slept through most of it.” Merlin reached up, pressed the playback button and made a fervent wish. Bane’s latest anthem against apathy blared reassuringly out, and Arthur looked up out of the booth to appraise the situation. Obviously Uther’s reaction was, if not good, good enough to warrant no further bodily harm being inflicted on Merlin’s person, for the ankles were suddenly lacking in warmth. 

“Typical. You must be the laziest person I ever met in my entire life, and I’m including all the audiences of all the gigs I’ve ever played. Even the ones who vomited on Uncle Ag. Took the roadies over a day to clean it out of the frets. Can’t think how you’re going to manage next week.” 

Merlin, who had been occupied in examining how far down Arthur’s shirt could be encouraged to drop, given the right kind of persuasion, and without causing anyone’s pupils to flash any kinds of colours, jerked his head up. 

“Next week? What’s next week? Why should I need to manage anything? Is Ag going to vomit on me? Why?”

Arthur sighed, but only a category one sigh, enough so that Merlin knew he was annoyed at having to explain something that even a simpleton like Merlin should understand. Not a category five.  
“Let me explain this to you in terms that will stick. Bane is a band. Bands play music. With me so far?”

Merlin nodded mutely, noting that Arthur’s crooked grin was back, and feeling vaguely happy to see it. It was, at least, an improvement on the frown. 

“In addition to recording music, bands play at live venues, for which people pay money to see them. Money can be exchanged for goods and services. Therefore, that is what we are going to do next week. In case you missed it, cabbagehead, which you might have done because you’re as thick as custard, you need to get this ancient thing ready to go.”

Merlin sat up, narrowly avoiding the deck. “But – “

“Honestly, Merlin, Gaius is usually hovering with cases about now and carrying on like a pork chop but he’s not here, so you’re going to have to manage. I’d get started if I were you. Now.” Arthur stood up. “Let’s be having you, lazy daisy.” Beamed as if he’d said something clever, and turned and left the booth. Merlin could vaguely hear Uther being jovial at everyone. It was ghastly.

Merlin contemplated his life choices and found them all lacking, if they had led to him sitting on the floor of a sticky sound booth, covered in dust and having to follow the orders of unfairly handsome gits who did not appreciate his hard work. It was in that pitiable state, with Merlin fiddling again under the deck, and attempting to secure all the many, many loose connections with eyes flashing gold, that Gaius finally decided to arrive, announcing himself with a nudge to Merlin’s foot, although when Merlin emerged again, Gaius did not look any more inclined to validate Merlin’s life choices than Arthur had. Gaius was also wearing sunglasses.

“Ah,” said he who wore sunglasses indoors during the daytime, “Packing, is it? I’m really not sure that KIL will survive another outing. Best to leave him at home this time, I think. I swear we have had this little talk before, Merlin. At least three times. If you were wearing headphones, it would have been sensible to remove them, if you could not hear what I was saying. Young people these days, no respect- ”. Merlin felt it best to stand up at this point, as from experience, he knew that the diatribe against headphones, and youth, and intergenerational tension could continue for quite some time, and apparently he had things to get on with.

“So I’m not taking KIL? Are you even coming?”

Gaius removed his sunglasses, and it was very clear that he should not have. It was almost impressive how bloodshot his eyes were. Entire flotillas of luggage could have been packed in his eyelids. There was also a distinct odour of tequila emanating from his person.

“No. No, I am not. You will be just fine. Take that little deck of yours. It’s a small venue tour, you can do it in your sleep. Don’t, Merlin, do it in your sleep, that was entirely a figure of speech. And you’re running late for the stage run down. Chop chop, best bestir yourself, Morgana doesn’t care for tardiness, you know. You’ll find them in the Horse and Chain.” The sunglasses were thankfully redonned, and Gaius teetered himself to the decrepit chair, which moulded itself to his person. 

Merlin’s feet had found themselves to the door before his brain caught up and grabbed his USBs. “Thank you, Gaius. I’ll bring you back a shirt.”

“No,” said Gaius, comfortably closing his eyes again. “Please don’t.”

The Horse and Chain was, mid afternoon, usually comfortably thrumming with activity. People at the pool table, groups occupying a couple of booths, with a low level of happy conversation, delighted to be absenting themselves from the afternoon grind of work. Occasionally a mother’s group, with a table full of hot chips and gravy, toddlers under foot, and a sneaky circle of white wines, and G&Ts. This was not that. It was very much not that. Every booth was full, with black band shirted people of every size and shape. The background muzak was off. No one was drinking. 

For a second, just one, it was awfully tempting to back out. He could, he supposed, go back to Wales. His mother would be very glad to see him, she always was. He could sleep in a proper bed, instead of the inflatable in Gaius’ spare. He could work for people who didn’t call him vegetables of various descriptions. Gaius would understand, surely. Besides, he hadn’t even seen any one from the actual band in there, how was he to be sure that he was in the right place? It would only be right not to barge in on what was clearly a private gathering. With his mind now firmly made up, he stepped backwards, and found himself thwarted. 

“Honestly, Merlin,” said Arthur into his ear, with a steadying hand at his back, preventing any further motion. “It’s almost like you have a talent for knowing what’s going to be the most annoying thing possible to do to me at any particular time, and then doing that thing. Get off my foot, stop wavering around like a damsel in distress and get in the fucking pub.”

Merlin again contemplated his life choices. They did not seem many, at this point. He got in the fucking pub.

Uther was not there, at least, which was a blessing, nor were Aggro nor Val. Owain’s khaki camo pants, he eventually spotted at the bar, with three pint glasses empty in front of Owain’s body, although Owain’s glassy eyed stare at the middle of the pub clearly indicated his body was elsewhere. Lot was next to him, with a similar collection of empty shots. Leon, however, was looking with great focus at the middle of the pub, and had nary an indication of an alcoholic beverage in sight. 

At the middle of the pub, a young woman stood on a chair. She was as black haired as Arthur was fair, in a black low cut silk shirt that had taken much of the fabric from the decolletage and instead placed it down the sleeves, and with a face as serene as any wood nymph who happened to have decided to go to the pub for a quick beverage or two, and not been disappointed. She had an air that communicated that she expected to be listened to, she expected to be obeyed, and she expected, above all else, to be loved, and by the rapt attention displayed by the armada of black shirt clad peoples inhabiting the pub, she very much was. 

“For those who have finally decided to join us,” and here Arthur pushed Merlin further into the pub, keeping a grip on the waist of his shirt, just close enough so that Merlin could understand that he didn’t really have a choice anymore about being there, and just close enough so Merlin could smell the fabric softener Arthur had used last. It was vaguely like lavender, but not. Cedar? Frangipanis? 

“It’s a quick trip down South, and then a slow trip to the usual stadiums. No Channel,” and at this there were cheers, “and no planes,” and more cheers, “but we are using trains for some of the freight, so Gwen’ll be your first port of call to get the black gear on and off, and Elyan has the lights and the truckers. We’re using the usual app, so make sure you sync regularly, because you know how I feel about people being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. How do I feel?”

The pub responded, as one: “Not good.” 

Merlin wondered, not for the first time, whether Bane as in fact some sort of cult that he had fallen into by accident. 

“Those that fall behind, get left behind. That means all of you. The only person, as always, who can miss the bus is?”

“Uther,” said the room, with considerably less enthusiasm. 

“Which means that who needs to be put on the bus?” asked Morgana, in the manner of a kindergarten teacher. 

“Uther,” said the room, with even less enthusiasm.

“That’s right.” She said, in the manner of all kindergarten teachers whose pupils have performed adequately. “You have your assignments, or you will do after you update your app. You have my trust. Don’t let me down. Don’t let the Bane down. Don’t let Uther down.”

There were muted cheers from those who had already had a beverage or two.

“What,” said Merlin, under his breath, “the actual fuck.”

He could feel Arthur laughing behind him, the actual bastard. “My sister Morgana. The crew. Without this, there is no Bane. Now get in there.”

Merlin has only sketchy memories of the rest of the night. There was a round of shots with Morgana, because that was, apparently, obligatory for a newbie, who smiled politely, but with an air of general menace, until Arthur explained who he was, and then the general menace turned into amusement, as if there was some joke that no one had the time to explain to someone as trivial as a skinny Welsh sound engineer, and Merlin was once again, fairly unsure as to the life choices which had lead him to that point. Then there was a reassuring G&T in his hand, and a vague impression of a shortish lass with a smile too big for her face, and a reassuring aura of general competency, called, contradictorily, Gwyn, but not white, and who did not even appear to be Welsh, so he was not holding her name against her in the slightest, particularly since, see above, G&T. She downloaded things onto his phone and tagged him in a bunch of photos which probably were uploaded into some Bane social media profile, and told him he was going to be just fine, and told Arthur to phone his father, after which point Arthur disappeared, not that Merlin was keeping track. There was also a brother named El, who was much less chatty, and did not give him anything to drink, so Merlin was less inclined to think well of him. After that, faces and names were a little blurrier. At some point, Merlin suspects there may have been karaoke. He would also clarify, if asked, that he did not vomit, either on himself, anyone else, or any guitar, but fortuitously from the state of Gaius’ spare room, and his own person alone in the bed, he appeared to have made it home successfully, by himself, without giving anyone cause for complaint.

Which was more than could be said for Gaius, who was still in his room, door shut, presumably sleeping off the hangover from the day before. Or his phone, which was sounding multiple alarms, for apparently he had less than twenty to find himself on the corner of the street, with his deck, or he would invoke the wrath of Morgana. That was actually what the message said. There was dramatic chords and everything. 

The world seemed a lot clearer after he’d stolen and consumed Gaius’ patent hangover cure, and he had a whole thirty seconds to spare, once he’d packed AIthusa, to look at the flat and regret nothing about leaving it, of which he used two, before shutting the door silently behind him. 

The bus was as quiet as the dead, and as full as an egg, black clad slumberers occupying virtually every seat, except for one double at the front. It seemed too good to be true, and Merlin stowed the deck, and took the window seat somewhat warily, expecting Arthur, or worse, Uther, to make a dramatic appearance and tell him all the many many things he was doing wrong. But nothing of the sort happened, and after half an hour, the eyelids closed and he drifted off, headphones in. When he awoke, Morgana was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by:  
> Seven Nation Army (The White Stripes)  
> Kashmir (Led Zepplin)  
> Whiskey In The Jar (Thin Lizzy)  
> Born of Frustration (James)


	3. Stadium 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bane plays live, Aithusa flies, Merlin meets Morgana - properly - and gets a little dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean this to be so long. Blame Merlin. I certainly do. I will take suggestions for how to help him behave. Or Arthur's riffs, whichever you like.

“Merlin, right?” said Morgana, examining the contents of her phone and deleting things with a carefree air. “We can either be the best friends that ever there were, or mortal enemies. It’s your choice.”

Merlin watched another five emails bite the dust. Her phone had several broken edges, but the screen appeared intact, which was surprising to him, given the force with which she was jabbing it. He leant further away from her in his seat, and rubbed at his eyes, hoping that would help. It didn’t. 

“Sorry, what?” 

Another two, and then she paused, and opened one, looking at him sideways.

“Anyone can cut an album. I don’t know your form. Which means you’ve never done a tour this size. Which means that either you can work with me here, and make Bane sound as good as they can, for what that’s worth, or you can fumble around in the dark while you figure it out, and leave the back seats dead, and I will have to kill you. So, Merlin, what will it be? Best friends or mortal enemies?”

Merlin’s default for dealing with people who threatened his life was to give his widest, most amiable and stupid appearing grin, and hope for the best. He hoped very hard now for the best, because even the sideways look of Morgana was enough to be terrifying. She had these eyes that had learnt from Medusa. Little bits of gold in them. He swallowed.

“Friends, please.”

Morgana smiled. “Excellent. We’ll be at the first in five.”

She went back to her phone. Merlin observed in quick succession that they were in fact drawing into the car park outside a stadium bigger than any he’d ever had the misfortune to enter previously, that sitting directly in front of him were in order one blond head, and one grey, that were studiously not speaking to one another, and that he felt positively nauseous. 

None of those things could be helped, they simply were, and they continued to be as the tribe that was Bane unfurled itself from the tour bus like so many ants. There was conversation throbbing about him, and Merlin found his smile becoming permanently fixed, because everyone appeared to be wearing one bigger than his, as they pulled equipment down and made for places with determination and purpose, while he found himself blankly staring at the edifice, holding Aithusa to his chest like an overgrown teddy bear and hoping for the best.

It was in that state that he recognised two things: he was hopelessly out of his depth, and secondly, he was loving every second of it. 

“Merlin!” called Morgana from mid throng. “Now, or sooner, if you please.” 

He was half way into the throng, using Aithusa as a quasi battering ram before he thought about it any further. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“Merlin,” called Arthur from behind him, in the tone that Merlin had classified earlier as indicating Arthur was about to behave like a complete prat, just because he could. Merlin continued on his way.  
“Oh, come on. I know with ears like that you can’t not have heard me. C’mon, to the truck, lifting duties await you, chop chop.”

Merlin stopped. Considered for the briefest of minutes, cradling Aithusa, who had decided of a sudden to become incredibly heavy and large. Continued on his way towards Morgana, at the rear of all the roadies and crew.

There was the briefest of moments of lovely silence, and Merlin took that time to contemplate how glad he was that he had made the correct decision.

It was at that point that the half eaten apple hit him squarely in the back of his head. Merlin placed Aithusa carefully at his feet. Made an about face.

Arthur was grinning, crooked teeth and all, holding a guitar case under his arm like it was a newspaper. “I knew you’d heard me. Now, to the truck with you, lazybones.”

Merlin sighed. “Morgana asked for me, and my hands are already full. Carry anything else and I’ll be on my knees.”

Arthur’s smile became wider. “Oh, I’m sure you know how to walk on your knees. But by all means, if you’re more scared of Morgana than me, follow her. By all means, Merlin, but just remember, I’ve got the guitar and the stage and you’re going to have to listen to me non stop all tour. I can take you apart with one blow, if I want.”

Fighting words. Merlin rested his hand carefully on Aithusa’s case. Licked his suddenly very dry lips. Looked up at Arthur as guilelessly through his batting eyelashes as he could muster.

“It’s almost as if,” he said in a carrying voice, “you have no idea what a sound engineer does. I could take you apart with less than that.” He laughed, suddenly, at the possibilities. “By all means, Arthur, if you want Bane to sound like a herd of geese tonight in Untold because I’ve forgotten to tweak for Aggro’s clangers. If you want me not to intervene in Uther’s major feedback issues in his little twiddles on Coronation Sky. Or even if you just want me to let the unfiltered version of Ready for War happen without me fixing Val’s fuckups. Just remember, Arthur, you may be the one on the stage, but you’re not the only one up there. Take me apart? Yeah, right. Bane’s the one who I’m holding together with bandaids.”

There’d been a line, somewhere in there, which he’d crossed, apparently, because Arthur’s smile had disappeared, and he was striding away from the bus and towards Merlin, with an air of menace, and the crowd of Bane had thinned enough to let him. It should not have caused his heart to race quite as much as it was doing, and he told it to stop.

“Or,” Merlin tried again, with his best cheeky smile, and attempt to have dancing eyebrows. “I could just swap out your water for vodka?” It would be foolish to run, and so Merlin did not attempt it.

“If,” growled Arthur, now close enough to be actually menacing, “you think we’re all so shit, then why the fuck are you here?”

Merlin swallowed, and picked up Aithusa, who now seemed to weigh nothing at all. “Experience? Because I’m a masochist?”

Arthur was now very close and incredibly menacing. “And me? What’s wrong with me? You’ve slagged out everyone else, so why hold back on me? Or are you too much of a coward?”

“Nothing,” Merlin said in a voice he didn’t quite recognise, before he could think of any way to stop himself, and wondering how the hell he was going to get back home from wherever they were once he was ceremonially booted, “you’re perfect. You’re lovely. Bane doesn’t deserve you.”

Arthur looked slightly shocked, which was a good look on him. Also, and this was the critical thing, no longer likely to kill Merlin. Merlin seized the opportunity, and also Aithusa, and made as quick a sidling exit as he could, to find Morgana, who potentially would. He made it all the way to the stadium door before Arthur found his tongue.

“You can’t say things like that to me. You just can’t,” he shouted across the car park.

“Too late,” shouted Merlin as he disappeared into the doorway, “I just did. Your majesty.”

“Idiot,” shouted Arthur, who appeared determined to get in the final word.

Merlin turned about, equally as determined, and shouted that he was the very clottiest of clotpoles, but sadly the tunnel door had shut and he succeeded only in deafening himself. 

The stadium was just as large and imposing as it had appeared from the outside, with many a twisty turny passage. After the third right turn with no exit, Merlin resorted to the thing his mother had told him he was not allowed to do, ever, if anyone could see, for why, he was alone, and sent a little blue were light up ahead to find him the way out, and his luck, for a change, held. Remarkably, the stage had already been constructed, and Morgana was looking happily at her phone, presumably at a run sheet that she was pleased with, rather than emails with which she was not.

“Ah, Merlin. Glad to see that you gave my brother the slip. Set up Aithusa, and let’s take this lady for a spin.” Morgana’s smiles were equally as infectious as Arthur’s, with an added bonus that Morgana did not cause his stomach to be confused and all collywaddled, and Merlin’s shoulders, which had become quite tense and twisty, left the vicinity of his ears, and he found himself perfectly capable of running the sound checks she asked for, and then running the length of the field, to test the properties for himself, and then, with his eyes turned firmly down so that no one could see them, to making some final adjustments on little Aithusa, the better for Bane to shine, or at least, to rock. Except that, when he looked up, Morgana was regarding him with an air of additional scrutiny.

“You remind me of someone, Merlin. I can’t quite put my finger on who, though.” She continued to watch him, and he brought his fingers to a halt.

“Hopefully no one you’ve left dead in a ditch?” He gave his best impression of a harmless sound tech bewitched by his manager’s competence, and it appeared to serve, for she returned her gaze to her endless list, and left him be. There was a beehive of people doing things around him, but there was nothing else on his list until band sound check, which was a whole hour away. He let Aithusa fly.  
Bane’s album sounded about as good to Merlin in the middle of the stadium as when he’d mixed it, which was as expected. A little boost on the trebles, and recalibration here and there on the inputs, and he could call it a day. But he found himself wondering. Surely, the people in the nosebleeds, it would be good to check how they’d experience the wonder that was Uther shouting and Aggro belting the hides? After all, they’d paid good money, presumably, for the experience. Not that Merlin would, but he was glad that someone was, for at the end of the day he wasn’t going to be paid unless Bane was paid, and that meant checking that people would be happy with the sound outputs. Which was his job, in a way. 

The only problem was, that the nosebleeds were so damn high up. So very very far away. No one could reasonably expect someone as tired as Merlin to climb all those stairs, surely, to check them? And  
yet, he could feel the need to check them niggling away at the back of his head, like an annoying fly that he couldn’t quite swat. If only, if only there was some way he could check, without having to break a sweat? Some sort of sound drone?

Merlin wished as hard as ever he could that he was the kind of sound tech that knew about drones, and prepared himself for exertion. He took one, last, longing look at the nosebleed seats and resigned himself to fate.

When he next thought about it, he was there, looking back down on the stage. There was Aithusa, sheltered nicely in her little black booth with all the serpentine cables. There was the mikes, and the set up. There, even, was the water bottle he’d just put down. Everything bar him. And it sounded tinny up here, he’d been wrong to boost the trebles that far. Good thing he’d checked.

He tried not to think too hard about what he’d just done. Thinking never got him terribly far when it came to these kinds of things, he’d found. He’d once turned a frog inside out by accident, wondering about its digestive system, and his attempt to put it back had left it with five legs, and a tendency to projectile vomit glitter. Instead, he speculated about the mid seats, to see if he could do it again.  
Which he, apparently, could. Same tinny quality. His mother would tell him that he needed the exercise, and he had to confess, two banks of seats, she was probably right, and he was being a bit lazy. But the stage was so terribly far away, he couldn’t possibly make it back in time before sound check, not the normal way. Morgana would be very disappointed in him if he wasn’t there. He didn’t like the idea of disappointing Morgana. 

Apparently, the trick could work any number of times. The only thing, he found as he steadied himself on Aithusa’s delicate table, carefully turning down the treble just a little bit, and letting his talents do the rest of the job of de-tinnifying the track, was that he was, just a smidge, wiped. 

Perhaps, he’d just rest his eyes a little bit. The Bane track playing was one of the older ballads, and if you tried really hard, you could count it as a lullaby. Or at least, Merlin found it so. Aithusa welcomed his forehead gently, and he passed out.

For a very relaxing couple of minutes, he remained that way. 

Then, there was a hand shaking him back to the land of all the conscious people, which was very much not his preference. However, the hand was insistent, and at least Arthur wasn’t shouting, so things were looking up.

That would be because it wasn’t Arthur. 

“Merlin,” said a concerned looking Gwen. “Are you okay? Are you dehydrated already? Here, drink something – “ and before Merlin knew it, he was being pressed to the ground, and water forcibly poured into his unresisting mouth, thankfully far from Aithusa, who did not care for hydrated anything. 

“M fine, thanks. Just resting my eyes. Honest, Gwen. Don’t carry on, or Morgana’ll kill me and she’s scary. What time is it? Oh gods, have I missed it?” 

“No, you goose. But they’re coming out, and I guessed you wouldn’t want to be caught napping. We common folk have got to stick up for each other, right?” Gwen grinned, eyes twinkling. 

“There’s nothing common about your kindness, m’lady,” smiled Merlin back at her, noticing that she was absolutely right, the band were in fact meandering onto the stage, carefully curated black jeans and silk shirts in Pendragon red, worn to a man, all of them but Uther, not yet present. “But you’d best be getting up there yourself, before someone plugs in wrong. Wouldn’t put it past them. Look at Val, he’s half falling off the stage and all.”

Gwen tsked under her breath, but pulled him up back to his table, and patted him on the head. “It won’t do for you to talk like that. You know how Uther is.”

Merlin shook his head. “Yeah, I do. Just I’m pretty sure he can’t hear me from here.” He glanced up at the stage, just to make sure. 

Arthur appeared to be glaring at him, but that could have been the stage makeup. Everyone else was fiddling with their gear. 

“Best get up there, as you say,” said Gwen. “First stadium gig of the year – wish us all luck!”

Merlin sighed. “I’d rather not. We’ll be fine without it.”

“No,” said Gwen. “First stadium of the tour, you need to wish me luck. Gaius always did it, and it won’t feel right without it. Won’t go up there, and then we’ll all be in trouble, Merlin. Go on, there’s a lad.”

Merlin stood up, dramatically. “If you insist.”

He switched the mikes to off, just in case. 

“Now hear this. Oh gods and goddesses of the new and old, we solicit from you a blessing. Bless this, the work of your servant, Merlin, and take it to yourself as an offering. Bless this, the work of Gwen insert last name here, who does her best to make these axes of the foolish fools on stage serviceable and melodious to you. You in particular, lady fortune, mistress of destiny, I put myself into your hands, as an agent of your will, for the tour, and ask for your best favours.”

Gwen shook her head. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant that you should wish me luck, because Gaius always did. Now look what you’ve done!”

There was a rainbow arching over the sky, one end closing in on the stage, where previously the skies had been a moody English grey. Merlin swallowed.

“Clarity, Gwen, is a virtue. It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine. It’s not forecast to rain, it’s just the spirits playing silly buggers with me. Not the first time, won’t be the last. Now go on, before someone drops something.” He shooed her up the stage, and sat down to his desk. 

The mikes were live. Including his relay. 

He fumbled it into his ear, and held his breath, hoping not to hear anything. He could just picture Gaius’ face. Taleisin’s face. His mother’s face. Telling him, each in their own special ways, that he needed to take more care, that using his talents was just asking for trouble. None of them listening when he explained that not using them felt like not scratching an itch. Like trying not to sneeze. Like trying not to breathe. It’d felt right, and he’d done it, perhaps with not enough caution, but it was done now. And if lady fortuna had decided that she wanted his oath to be heard, then there was nothing he could do to stop it, one way or another. People who don’t want oaths to be heard shouldn’t make them.

Besides, he’d meant it, what he’d offered. You had to, in his experience. There was this one time, on scout camp, when he’d jokingly asked for a little help with the weather, after the second night of rain, and the middle of the night, just like that, the temperatures suddenly jumped up, and the skies cleared, which was great, but then there’d been a lightning strike out of the blue, which took out his tent, and he’d been clean thrown across the clearing. Hair stuck out for miles. 

It’d seemed like the right thing to do, in the minute, making the offer. It wasn’t like there was anyone of his, in the band. Bane was a Pendragon gig. His mum was back in Wales, and miles from anywhere related to rock. His dad was well out of it, wherever it was that he was, which was nowhere near him. Gaius was a nice old codger, with somewhat a predilection to taking a chemical path to another dimension, but not his, not really. Where was the harm, then, in putting his life in the service of destiny? For at least as long as the tour ran, anyway. He’d learnt, too, his lesson about the importance of boundary setting after a mischievous water sprite turned his skin blue, in exchange for a river crossing, where he’d been too desperate to think, and said yes, anything, and instantly regretted it, on the one hand, and counted his lucky stars the sprite had been mischievous rather than malicious. Agent of destiny, how much trouble could that be?

The stage was busy now, except for one man, who stared down at him. Apparently, the wardrobe mistress had thought that black eyeliner and a shirt more undone than any of the other members of Bane would be a good choice for Arthur, and sadly, staring up at Arthur and waiting for the mocking to commence, Merlin had to agree that she was very much not wrong.

“Do you think, Merlin, ever? In case someone hasn’t told you, my dad, he’s not real keen on goddesses, destiny, all that? Whatever the exact opposite of keen, that’s what he is. First sound check, you’re doing it great.” 

“You know how I said you were lovely?” 

“I’m trying very hard to forget, you semi competent monkey.”

“I take it all back. Play your fucking guitar, you cabbage.”

Up on the stage, Arthur struck a pose, with his guitar firmly lodged somewhere in his hip, pointed in his direction, and the opening riff of Sunshine of Your Love blared down at Merlin. There was some strutting. Some lip biting. Merlin was not, however, distracted in any way, no matter how big a fan he’d been of prog rock. There were fine adjustments to be made, no matter how hot the sound booth was currently feeling, and several others to be run through, and it in no way signified that he was currently half crooning snatches of the lyrics in a way which probably meant that Merlin was the only one who was listening, who could listen. Didn’t signify at all. 

“Yes, fine. You’re good. You’re good. Get the others in shape, would you?” Merlin said loudly, but Arthur continued, apparently determined to close out the song in his own way. Which involved quite a lot of marching about and hip thrusts. Not in any way affected, Merlin reminded himself.

There was quite a deal of cheering when he finished too, but Arthur turned his back on the stage crew down in the pits, and called in the rest of Bane, who started with significantly less enthusiasm, to play bits of Bane tracks, old and new, and grunt at Merlin through their earpieces, once Arthur reminded them to plug them in, and Merlin, as promised, added a little soupcon of something to fix up those that needed a bit more than Aithusa could manage. With slightly less frivolity, Arthur took from Gwen a blacker, sleeker Fender than any of the others on the stage, and curtly ran it through the motions of Bane’s Ready for War, waited for Merlin to give the go, and stood, stiffly, by the rear of the stage. 

Merlin hadn’t quite been expecting the vision that Uther had become. Arthur had been given eyeliner, and a half open red silk shirt, true. However, Uther had managed to go one better, with more eyelashes and purple shaded shadowing than Merlin’d seen in any of the clubs he’d played, on any of the performers, and certainly none of the performers he’d worked with had been wearing capes of quite the style that Uther was pulling off, at least not for long. It billowed. It moved by itself. It belonged to a lead, for sure and certain. Uther took the guitar from Arthur, without looking at him, and moved to centre stage. 

“Friends,” he said into the centre mike. “Once again, we ride forth, to meet our foe. We will prevail, for we must. We will play hard, because that is who Bane is. Not for us, the grungy club and shallow styling of synthesizers, the fakery of drum loops, the evil sorcery of autotunes, and smoothing through notes that never should have existed. That is not music, that is witchery at its worst, and those who practice it are no musicians. They’re not worthy of a stadium like this. We bring music to the masses, and we will be triumphant!”

There was cheering from all the stage crew, and the other members of Bane. Merlin tried to cover Aithusa’s sound intake, just in case. There were some days when he suspected she was actually sentient, more than a baby dragon ought to be, and just humouring him in the form of a sound deck, and on those days, he’d really prefer that she wasn’t told that she was evil. Then he tried to suppress a shiver. He was awfully glad that he’d always released under a pseudonym. If Arthur was menacing, then Uther was unhinged, and he’d rather not be a target. That purple eyeshadow was vaguely suggestive of a cadaver, and it wasn’t giving him pleasant thoughts about what Uther would do, should he uncover Arthur’s innocent guitar riffs, mixed with what he’d just described as evil sorcery. 

Which wasn’t, actually, a bad name for a track. If he could lift that little run through Arthur’d done, and loop it a bit, mayhap flip it, then layer a couple of –

“Hey, on the double,” Morgana was barking at everyone. “An hour to kick off, and lighting, you’re nowhere near ready yet? Give me the pyros names, and I’m going to have a naughty list started. Is that what you want? First show?”

Merlin shook himself. Bane was off, Morgana was on the warpath, and there was already a crowd of black shirt Bane fans trickling into the stadium. The track would have to wait. He couldn’t hear any stage noise any more, nothing except the thumping of his own heart, and a ragged edge of breathing that someone was contributing to his sound landscape via the relay, in between snatches of songs that weren’t Bane’s. 

He thought about telling Arthur he was still on, but then thought again, because there was the crooning, and it was soothing, and he was slightly, just a smidge, on edge. Yes, he’d played all those shows back in Cardiff, but it’d been dark, and everyone in all those clubs were on some form of induced high, with the magic, or the drugs, or the alcohol, and he could very much guarantee that the mostly men, mostly very fit and slightly aggro looking men, many with shaved heads and vaguely patriotic tattoos of one sort or another, that had filled the stadium, were not. 

There was a warm up band, someone local, the Dockerty Brothers, who played banjos, and bagpipes, and the kind of songs that you sing down the pub of an evening when everyone’s as pissed as you are, and who didn’t really need any assistance of a sound desk variety, just a bit of volume, which he gave them. 

By the time they were done, it was full dark. He could feel the anticipation, almost a haze, sitting over the top of the crowd. It was intoxicating, if you were into that kind of thing. The soundtrack provided by the voice in his ear had stopped, somewhere in the Dockerty Brothers first song, and so it took Merlin by surprise, somewhat to be suddenly addressed.

“I hate this part,” said Arthur. “The waiting, I mean, not the playing, of course. You should see us all, back here. Dad’s being very earnest and very solemn, the opposite of stirring. Owain’s biting his nails. I mean, he’s wearing leather fucking pants and studs, and he’s biting his nails like a toddler. Ag’s fiddling with his phone like he’s coding up state secrets, I don’t know why, because the set list’s set, and it’s no secret. Leon’s fondling his drumsticks like he’s expecting a happy ending. Val is playing his head off, like he always does, blurring the shit out of everything and counting on you to fix it. I just want to be out there. I just want to play.”

Merlin breathed out. 

“It’s like there’s all the weight of the water out there pressing on your skin, and you want to let it in, let that pressure go, head to the surface, but you can’t, because you’ll get the bends, you’ll die.”  
Merlin felt it. His skin tingled with it. Something pushing. 

“Not long now, Arthur. Just play something. Play something now, for me.”

Arthur laughed. “I’m not going to do that. Uther won’t have it.”

Merlin could imagine Uther’s face, shocked and disappointed. It wouldn’t do. “Fine, then you listen. I’ll play you something. No one has to know. In fact, it’s probably better they don’t.”

Then quickly, before he could double think himself out of it, he sent the Once, that mix, down the relay. There was Arthur’s music, and Arthur’s voice, mixed in with all the soothing he could. And if Arthur was his father’s man, he’d be switching off, and shouting him quiet, and sounding off about synthesizers, and drum machines, and aural trickery, but Arthur was quiet, and Arthur was listening, and the track played itself out, right down to its final fade. Then there was silence. Just for a moment. Just for a breath.

“And that was?” 

“Did you like it?” Merlin tried not to be optimistic. 

“It wasn’t terrible, I suppose.” Arthur’s voice appeared to be trying to be neutral. It wasn’t, quite.

“That was you, just better. Or it could be you, if you don’t want to wait. Something to think about, while you are.“

“While I am what? God, Merlin, don’t get in my head. Not now.”

“If not now, when? If not me, who? Just think about it, when you’re out there in ten minutes, playing back up for your dad. What would you want, if you could let that pressure out? What would that sound like?”

Arthur clicked off. 

Merlin patted Aithusa, reassuringly. “He’ll come round. Did you hear him listening to you? He’ll come round, I know it.”

Then, there was the thirty seconds call from Morgana, and a last check over the board, and the opening chords of Begin the War to line up, and at the right time, or just about, the pyro team redeemed themselves, and Bane burst forth. 

Merlin had to pull the headphones feed right up, because the pressure was suddenly bursting all over, the crowd of true Bane fanatics shouting, and whooping, and random little pushing and shoving, as people tried for a better view, even though they’d been standing in their same positions for an hour now. And as the battle continued on around him, Merlin found himself creating a little bubble of quiet, just him, and Aithusa, and the sound mix at the centre, taking in the Bane sound and feeding back his enhanced version out, for all the world like a radiant crystal held in his hand. He could feel, too, the energy of the crowd feeding him more, more than he’d ever had to hold at the same time, more than any club of dancers riding the wave of his music, more than was truly safe, and there was nowhere to put it now, but out through his crystal, out into the music, and Bane sounded better than on the album, better than in any rehearsal, better than any tour they’d played in the past, and it still wasn’t enough to take it all, not really. Gaius hadn’t mentioned this bit. Maybe Gaius didn’t know.

By the third song, he was disguising some of the flares as pyrotechnics, and that held him, right up to the final encore, in which Arthur had too much of a solo, and was all kinds of amazing, and then Merlin had to let Aithusa manifest. 

It was fortunate that she wasn’t a terribly large dragon, and shimmered like a hologram and the crowd was overjoyed that Bane was treating them to some new and exciting special effects. It was also fortunate that she had a tendency to avoid people, rather than try to eat them, or toast them, lightly buttered or otherwise. It was unfortunate that she didn’t want to come back down, once the final sounds had faded into the night sky, and Bane retreated back into the dressing rooms, and the crowd of thousands of rather sweaty black clad enthusiasts had stumbled out the exits, not even after the stage had been broken down, and all the cables unplugged, and Aithusa’s case had enfolded Aithusa’s sound deck. 

All of which left Merlin, standing about like a numpty, in the middle of a dark stadium, clutching the case like a discarded carapace and wondering what to do next. She’d flown before, true, but mostly at times he’d chosen, as being good for wing stretching, and baby dragon growing, and wild Welsh mountain exploration, and even one memorable time, a little flame. She’d never flown off her own bat before. And she’d always come back when he called.

Perhaps?

“Aithusa,” he sang out into the night sky. “Come back and take a rest. That’s enough wing stretching for one day.”

He could hear her, if he tried. She was stretching her wings, and folding them back in. It was difficult to assess whether this was preparatory to taking off in all directions, or coming back down and being the docile sound deck she normally appeared to be. 

“That was exciting, right? More of that if you come down. More tomorrow. But you have to come back down. For me? Please?” He’d never owned a cat. For precisely this reason. It was more like Aithusa owned him. Perhaps this was lady destiny, just mucking about with him. Perhaps she should be left to her own devices? But she was such a little one, after all. It wouldn’t be right. He couldn’t leave her.

“Merlin,” came a voice, getting closer in the dark. It wasn’t Aithusa. 

“Yes, just coming,” he responded, doing nothing of the sort.

“What on earth are you still doing out here? I thought I was pretty clear about bus boarding times, yes?” Morgana’s eyes were very beautiful, very dark and very angry.

“I’m just, ah, getting ready.”

“You are ready. You’ve your case, and your pants are on, and I’d like them both on the bus. Now, please.”

Merlin looked up at the sky. Lady destiny, he decided, had a funny sense of humour, for there was a shimmering, beautiful thing winging its way down to him, with what seemed to be a cheerful grin, and no sense of timing at all.

Morgana, to give her credit, did not appear as phased as one might expect. Almost as if she’d half expected it. Almost as if she were just a smidge jealous. Almost as if she were impressed, when Aithusa landed, tucking her wings neatly behind her, and not falling over very much at all in her eagerness to rub up against his legs.

“I can explain,” tried Merlin. “It’s not what you think. Please don’t – “

But Morgana was already rubbing Aithusa’s head, and Aithusa, for reasons best known only to her, wasn’t exercising her right to bodily autonomy by flaming her into a little pile of ashes, but making the grumbly sound that he translated, always, as purring. 

“I don’t think you can explain this. I don’t think I really want you to. Isn’t enough that I’m patting a dragon? She’s utterly gorgeous, Merlin. Just divine.”

Merlin blushed. “She is, isn’t she? But she’s not meant to be out. Not where people can see. Please – “

“Don’t tell? No. Of course. But we’re going to have a little chat tonight, aren’t we? You and me, and this little lady, and perhaps one of the Glens?” 

Merlin looked at Aithusa, who was mouthing at Morgana’s slacks. He wasn’t sure to what extent magical creature spit would stain, and he hoped very much she wouldn’t hold it against Aithusa if it did. He looked at his phone, which was now bursting with notifications, most of them from Morgana and threatening bodily violence if he wasn’t at the bus. He swallowed, and mentally rehearsed his dragon speech. She didn’t like it very much when he used it. He didn’t blame her. It was like gargling with gravel, and then swallowing. 

“Aithusa, c’mon now. Don’t get us all in trouble. Back in the box? For me?” Morgana cooed. 

He could see Aithusa fade, even as she finished, and the case sink in his arms, suddenly much heavier, and he patted it reassuringly. “That’s a good dragon. We’ll figure you out a plan, me and lovely Morgana. You like her, don’t you?”

Morgana straightened up, and reassumed her fearsome posture. “You. Me. The bus full of Bane. Let’s double time it. You’ve no idea what they’re like after one of these. We’ll talk later.”  
The bus was throbbing with noise. The same people who’d been semi comatose hours before were climbing over seats, passing about bottles of booze that had appeared from all the hidey-holes that Merlin hadn’t noticed, and he could feel a tingling at his edges again, almost as much as during the concert. He held the railings as he stood at the step, wondering if it was altogether sensible to get in. Then Morgana pushed him, and he had nowhere to go but in, and he stumbled across the aisle, clutching Aithusa carefully, and into someone’s lap.

There was a millisecond there when Merlin was hopeful, that the lap was the lap of someone kind, and tolerant of idiot sound engineers and their mishaps. The millisecond was blissful, and short, and over as soon as he looked up into Uther’s face. 

The purple eyeshadow had not faded one iota in its horrific effect, and lady destiny overlaid, just for Merlin, an image of Uther’s skull, all empty socketed and grinning jaw, and Merlin stumbled hurriedly back, and bumped into the other side of the aisle. There were firm hands on his hips, holding him still, and Merlin had no choice but to stand and look at the smiling skull, and receive its reprimand.

“Merlin, isn’t it? Sound boy? Last on the bus, right? Punishable offence, right, Arthur?”  
Merlin swallowed. 

“Speak up, boy. Can’t hear anything after that night. Good one, though, eh?”

“Yes, sire.” Merlin blurted out, and felt the hands dig their fingers in, just a bit. “I mean, I’m sorry. I’ve apologised to Morgana, haven’t I?”

“Yes, father,” said Morgana. “He was doing something for me. No punishment needed. Sit, Merlin. Now,” said she to the rest of the bus. “Well done, all of you. I have notes!”

There was a collective groan, and the bus fell silent. Which was quite an achievement. 

Merlin felt the hands tugging him back, and resisted only so long as it took him to stow Aithusa in the carry on, inexplicably empty, almost as if a space had been left for him. Then he let himself be pulled. It was better than remaining between Morgana’s chastisements and the objects of them. 

It did not really surprise him that the hands belonged to Arthur, and the seat he’d fallen into was right next to his. That was just the way that his day was shaped, and nothing that lady destiny was involved with one way or another. No, what was surprising was the look that Arthur was bestowing on him, all warm blue eyes, and tolerant, and almost affectionate. Merlin wasn’t sure he could bear it, of a sudden, especially when Arthur pulled his legs bodily in out of the aisle, like Merlin was nothing but a rag doll for him to move as he pleased. 

“Well,” whispered Arthur, once he’d finished rearranging Merlin to his satisfaction. “That wasn’t terrible. I might go so far as to say that you didn’t disgrace me.”

Merlin snorted. Morgana looked down on him, reproachfully, and then back up again, continuing on with her notes, holding the bus in the palm of her hand.

“Well, you didn’t disgrace me either.”

There was a cheer from behind them, and then the volume of the bus went again to eleven. Someone patted him on the head, and when he looked up, Morgana was sitting across from him, with Uther’s skull grin thankfully concealed from sight. 

“Oh, I really wouldn’t. I very much would not. She’d have your guts for garters, and your ears for afters. Heights to which you better not aspire, Merls. I will be requiring your assistance later tonight, when you can explain to me what the hell that was, and I will be explaining to you in great detail, how big a misstep that would be.” 

Arthur appeared to be sucking a lemon, or at least remembering how it felt to accidentally eat one, mouth pursed up, but the overall effect was still ruined by his laughing eyes, made darker and more cutting with the excess of stage makeup. It was a little too hard for anyone to look at, that close, and not be moved, and Merlin thought Arthur as thick as two bricks as a result.

“No. Pendragons are a step too rich for my blood. She is, I have to say, deeply fabulous and deeply scary. Perhaps, if I practice really hard, one day I can be as intimidating as her?” Merlin grinned, at Arthur, and waited, and was not disappointed when Arthur laughed. 

“Never going to happen, mate. On either count.”

If Merlin closed his eyes, he could, he bet, see the lines of magic oozing around the bus. He wondered if Arthur had any clue. He wondered if Uther did. Best not to try.

Arthur was, when he looked up, looking at his chin. Or his mouth. Or his cheek. He flushed, a little, and saw Arthur’s mouth quirk at one side in response. 

“You’re covered in soot, you know. Like you’ve been rolling in a campfire. Amazing how you do it, in the middle of a stadium. Hold still.”

Merlin tracked Arthur’s thumb into Arthur’s mouth, where Arthur licked it nice and wet, and then proceeded to dab at various places around Merlin’s face, accompanied by squawks from Merlin who was trying to explain about fireworks, and crowd control to no avail, until Merlin’s face was half covered in Arthur’s spit, and Arthur was satisfied. Something in Merlin’s head appeared to have broken, white behind his eyes and a buzzing noise in his ears, and he wasn’t thinking any more.  
“There. Close your mouth, Merlin, flies’ll get in.”

Merlin did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by:  
> Sunshine of your Love (Cream)  
> Little Lion Man (Mumford & Sons)  
> Swords of a Thousand Men (Tenpole Tudor)


	4. Construction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which music is made

“The thing is, thing is, right?” 

Merlin waits, patiently, for Arthur to finish his sentence. It’s 2am, and Merlin doesn’t have much hope. This is the third time that Arthur has started. Merlin would quite like to go to sleep, but he’s not quite sure where a bed might be that has his name on it. Last night, after the concert, and the excitement of convincing Aithusa to stay put, and dodging both the promised conversations, he’d dropped onto a couch somewhere, and between the blink of one eye and the other, he’d slept like a stone. 

He’d woken up to a sea of faces. The room was in fact the foyer of the pub. Everyone else must have found their own beds and had a decent night’s sleep, because they all looked extremely happy, even Uther, which was a minor miracle. At least there’d been bacon at breakfast. 

That was not going to happen to him tonight, he’d determined. Morgana had, she said, arranged a bed for him, and he was going to find it, and he was going to sleep in it. He couldn’t sleep here, primarily because he was on the floor, Arthur occupying the couch, lying selfishly like a selfish lying thing across it, and cradling a guitar across his chest, gently fondling at its strings. It was not giving Merlin any ideas, at all. None. 

“Thing is.” 

Merlin closed his eyes, just for a second, to see if that would encourage any termination.

“Thing is, no, just wait.”

And now, the utter bastard was playing it, stroking the notes out like the best mix of butter and honey, and Merlin really wished he’d knock it off. Or do it some more. There was nothing else to do but listen, and hope for Arthur to stop the teasing he was doing, starting the melodies that the Bane riffs promised, and building them into something that was almost enough, almost enough to take into their own space and stand on their own two feet, and then at the last second, cutting them back down into Time for War, or No Time for Slumber, and the mundane. Or worse, just stopping before the melody finished, leaving Merlin on the brink, waiting for death, or at best, a little death. Which was out of the question, unless he had a bed of his own, for which, see above.

Merlin opened his eyes. Arthur had shut his, and the bastard was biting his lip. It really wasn’t fair. 

Something would have to be done. 

Uther was safely tucked into bed, and from the sounds emerging from his room, either fast asleep or in possession of a large and angry pig. All the sensible people were doing likewise. The stage crew were trying, despite all evidence to the contrary pointing towards this not being a good idea, to outdrink Morgana in the pool room. It was safe enough.

Aithusa slipped easily enough from her case, and into Merlin’s lap, easy enough on the floor. He wondered if Arthur would notice that she wasn’t plugged in. Since he had his eyes shut, it was probably fair to guess that he wouldn’t.

Slip the melody in under Arthur’s, and he probably wouldn’t notice that either. Probably. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

A bit more bass, nothing enough to shake the room, but that equating to a drone, and a little bustle in the hedgerow in the midfield, and that little bit from the lullaby, and he was betting that Arthur was going to need a little backing track, so into the blues Aithusa was sent, a little 12 bar, and Arthur followed. Arthur led, truth be told, now that Merlin had woven the harmonics under him like a horse riding out, like a castle from which to stand, and when Merlin looked back out, the pool room had emptied out, and they had an audience. Or perhaps it was Arthur who had the audience, all oblivious, as he played the melody out, all the way down, all the way to the end, with a heartfelt sigh, to finish, all out of breath, like he’d been singing the melody, rather than playing it, like he’d used his strength to cajole the tune into life. Merlin let Aithusa fade back into quietude.

He wanted to look back at Arthur, to see if he’d even noticed what he’d made, all on his own. He wanted to see what Arthur looked like, in the afters. He wanted to see what that face was, when Arthur was happy, when he was fully satisfied. 

He wanted Arthur to sleep, and wake up and do it all over again.

There was a hand on his shoulder, just resting there, and Merlin held still, watching the crew, who looked as spellbound as he felt. 

“Don’t.” said Arthur, before the crowd could draw breath to cheer. “Probably best not to wake him up, yeah?”

The crowd nodded, hushed. The hand squeezed, and held Merlin firm.

“Alright, peoples,” said Morgana, clapping her hands briskly. “One more night here, and then we’re offsky. Those of you foolish mortals who imbibed tonight best have provided for their own pain medication, for I’m not sharing mine. Drink water, children, and I’ll see you bright and early. Merlin, a word.”

It wasn’t quite a question. The hand released him, and behind him, Arthur left. Merlin busied himself with Aithusa, and felt suddenly as tired as he ought to. Elyan tousled his hair as he left, whistling quietly. Gwen nudged him with her foot as she trailed behind, and smiled quickly when he looked up. 

“Somehow, Merlin, I’m not surprised,” Morgana said, watching as the last of them left. “How much of that was you, and how much was her?”

Merlin patted the case. “She’s sleeping tonight. She’s not as interested in that bit. She likes the people. I mean, the crowds.”

Morgana’s forehead creases relaxed back down. She took her hands off her hips, and offered Merlin one, in lieu of an apology. “I had visions, you know, of her erupting out and setting the place on fire. I don’t think the insurance would cover it.” 

Merlin pictured it, and shook his head. “She wouldn’t. I think.”

“I dreamt,” Morgana said, linking her arm through the one that wasn’t holding Aithusa’s case. “of her flying. Me with her, I mean. She was a good deal bigger than Friday night, though.”

Merlin held Aithusa’s case a little tighter. 

“I’m not going to try, Merlin, do settle down. I’m just telling you about my dream.”

“is that something you do, tell random people your dreams? Fun you must be at parties.”

“You’re not a random person, Merlin. And this isn’t a party. I’m telling you, because the dreams I’ve had with you in them have happened. Some of them, so far, anyway. I dreamt you, and Arthur, playing that tune, just now. I dreamt Aithusa flying, Friday night. I dreamt you spilling beer on Kay’s foot, that night when the pool table got trashed. It’s a thing that I do. I’ve stopped trying not to do it. I’m telling you, because you’re not going to tell me I’m crazy. Right?”

Merlin looked at Morgana, who was watching the staircase, as they climbed. She looked more tired than he felt, which was saying something. “If you’re crazy, then so am I. I’m holding a dragon under my arm, who’s pretending to be a sound deck. That sounded even stupider than in my head. What else, Morgana? What else is there, that you’re not saying? I don’t think you’re the sort to be scared by the prospect of flying a dragon.”

She pulled him up the last step, as he fumbled it, and steadied his arm. “It’s too late, and I’ve had too much whiskey. We’ll talk on the bus on the way out. No, that’s stupid. We’ll talk in Penzance. We’ll go for a walk, and have a nice little chat, and Uther won’t have anything to complain about. Ha!” She giggled suddenly, and Merlin’s shoulders relaxed back down. “You’re in here. Don’t wake Arthur up, he’s tired tonight.”

Before Merlin could protest, or ask for an explanation, he found himself indecorously stumbling through the door, and into a dark room, narrowly avoiding the bags on the floor, and catching himself onehanded on the end of something solid and woody. He heard Morgana giggle again, and then the door was shut, and the darkness was encompassing. 

“Honestly, Merlin, you make enough noise to wake the dead. Put your stuff down and get into bed and go to sleep.” Arthur sounded exasperated, and Merlin could vaguely see a sepulchral outline on the bed he was holding. He couldn’t quite see anything else after that, so he stood as still as he could, like that was going to help anything. It was a very confusing situation, and he wasn’t quite sure how to address it. Was Arthur expecting him to get into bed with him? He would get out his phone, and see if Morgana had told him anything specific about the sleeping situation, but surely he wasn’t meant to be sharing a bed with Arthur? That would be a little much. Bane wasn’t doing that badly. Were they?

“Over there, you giant numpty, stop mucking about. The bed’s by the window. Stop thinking so loudly, I’m tired,” sighed Arthur, as Merlin fumbled his way over, and put Aithusa down as delicately as he could, slightly disappointed. The bed was forgivingly soft, and Merlin toed his shoes, and clothes off, and slid beneath the sheets. He’d clean his teeth in the morning. 

“Sleep, Merlin. Talk later. Sleep now.”

He stared up into the ceiling, and wondered about what Morgana wasn’t telling him. About what Arthur was thinking. About what else Morgana might have dreamt. And what he was going to do about the whole thing.

Luckily, or unluckily from the perspective of Merlin’s bare legs, Arthur was not inclined to interrogate him in the morning, no, Arthur was inclined to pull back his sheets in a manner way too energetic for how Merlin was feeling, and tell him that his legs were paler than a vampires, and he really needed to be up with the sun, because Merlin was going to be Arthur’s jogging companion, and Arthur was not taking no as an excuse.

The only advantage, Merlin felt, as he puffed along in a pair of shorts borrowed from Arthur and double knotted about the middle which nevertheless felt on the verge of falling down, the only advantage to jogging, was that he couldn’t reasonably be expected to talk while he was doing it. Arthur seemed to be absolutely fine setting a moderately fast pace, and not to be too troubled about it either. His pants fit very nicely indeed, and it was altogether unfair how the sunlight was hitting his hair like that, all gold and shiny crowned despite the fact he’d had as little sleep as Merlin. Not even out of breath. Merlin jogged gloomily behind him, holding up his pants with one hand, panting like a steam engine.

“You’d be scaring off the wildlife, if there was any here to scare” observed Arthur, as they jogged along the path between the pub and the stadium, replete with detritus of a thousand fast food meals. “You make more noise than you did last night. Thrashed about in your sleep like you were fighting off a mugging. Don’t know how your girlfriend gets on.”

“’m gay,” wheezed Merlin, wishing for death.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to assume. Your boyfriend. Your cuddly toy. Your pet dog. Anything and anyone that has the misfortune to share a sleeping space with you.”

“ha bloody ha,” said Merlin, seeing the pub loom back in sight. “last night, I hate to tell you, was as close as I’ve slept to man or beast in months. Solitary creature, me.” 

It would have sounded more dramatic, had Merlin not developed a sudden case of hiccups as he stumbled up the stoop into the pub after Arthur. And tripped over the stoop into Arthur’s back.

“Honestly, you’re a sad little man, aren’t you? And you stink worse than I do. Go shower.”

“But,” whimpered Merlin. “Bacon.”

Arthur shook his head. “Shower. And then pack us up, would you? I need to have a chat with Morgana.”

Merlin looked longingly at the hot dishes, wafting their seductive scent of hot greasy meat his way. 

“Go on, Merlin. And brush your teeth. You didn’t last night.” 

Not even the delightfulness of the hot shower, and Arthur’s coconut bodywash, was enough to make up for the lack of bacon, which was completely gone by the time he finished with Arthur’s luggage and his own. Arthur had an inordinate number of black shirts, all strategically ripped. Merlin’s shirts were ripped, but mostly because they were cheap crap. Arthur’s felt nice, like velvet would, if it had gone on a diet. Merlin did not rub it against his face to feel, because he had some dignity. Just a little.

The tour bus was packed, and the stadium broached for a final time. The crowd was just as wild, just as enthusiastic as the first night, at every song, every guitar solo, whether by Uther (somewhat hamfisted), Val (sloppy and energetic), or Arthur, but Merlin was wilier now, and ready for it. He could feel Aithusa itching with the excess, just as she’d done the first night, and he let the energy trickle down into the turf, into the roots, soaking it up like rain. Fireworks were a little, he told himself, excessive. Besides, Morgana would have him doing it every night, if she knew it were him. Best not.

The tour bus back to the pub was loud and wild. There were bottles of vodka being passed about like they were water, several band members shirtless, and Merlin felt the need to cover Aithusa’s ears at the language, had she had any. Uther was leading the charge, in full voice, as if he hadn’t sung a note at all, all evening, and for a moment, Merlin could see it, what it must have been, when Bane started, before Arthur’s time, when it was Uther’s and Uther’s alone. But blink, and he saw the death mask again, and in the flash of the headlights, he saw Morgana watching him, and he knew that she saw it too.  
In the pub, Uther found himself a table to stand on, despite the publican’s protests. “I thank you all for a mighty first battle, a triumph of music against the night,” and Merlin was bracing himself for more of the same, and wishing Aithusa wasn’t quite as heavy as she was making herself, before with a mighty swish of his cape, Uther turned on his heel and with a steady jump to the floor, made his exit, to cheers from all the remaining crew. Agravaine rolled his eyes and followed suit. Val grabbed for his cigarettes, and made for the door. Lot headed for the pokie machines in the saloon, and Owain immediately made a phone call, and departed for parts unknown.

“Listen up, you lot,” said Morgana, in a voice that was no louder than her usual. The pub quietened anyway.

“Tomorrow, we ride.” There were cheers, which went on for slightly over a minute.

“As I was saying,” said Morgana when the cheers subsided, “tomorrow, we ride to Penzance. Sleep in and you’ll be left behind. Merlin, no exceptions.” There were also cheers at this, and Merlin found himself blushing, although he wasn’t quite sure why he was. 

“Tonight, get some sleep. I hope you all learnt your lesson last night, which was, for those forgetful, that I have an iron cast liver, and there is no point in trying it on. See Gwen if you have a guitar issue, or have time to help with one. See Elyan if you want to discuss times and places for the next one. On the bus tomorrow, I’ll be sending an update, so check your phones on the way. It was a good start, and I’ll talk to you in groups about any notes I have, if I haven’t caught you already. That’s it, have a good night, and if I see any one here after one, I’ll kick your asses.”

There were cries and entreaties, and Morgana relented. “Two, and that’s it. Go, be free, my wood elves.”

Merlin found himself pushed forward into the foyer, and deposited in a chair. There seemed to be a bit of a commotion occurring, although Merlin wasn’t quite sure why. Then Kay emerged, with a small thing in his hands. Kay was a large man, one of the heavy lifters of the crew, with muscles that were clearly earnt by, well, lifting things that weren’t in gyms. He was broad of shoulder, and long of limb, and as thick as Merlin were thin, and Merlin was a little afraid. Was this a hazing ritual? If so, weren’t they running a little late with it?

Kay loomed over him, blank faced, with his big bulk, and Merlin caught his breath. 

Then released it, as Kay held something up in front of him, and there was a cheer from the crew behind him. He brought up his other hand, and pulled them apart slowly, and a little concertina wheezed outa sound. What was happening suddenly clicked into sharp focus. There was music to be made. The crew had liked what Arthur had done last night, and Merlin had been part of that, so by extension, they liked him too. 

The bag felt lighter already, and Aithusa, when he lifted her out, and pulled her onto his lap seemed pretty happy. Happier still, when he started playing, this time, because Arthur was off doing something no doubt far more responsible than he was, pushing the lead. The accordion itself gave him the lead, and it felt like a folk tune kind of night. Gwen surprised him when she took a section of the old English melody and spun it out into words, a sweet thick contralto that rasped where it should, and sang clear when it didn’t have to. There were enough of the crew who knew enough of the tune to provide a call and response, and at first Merlin missed it, when the guitar wove itself in.

Wove itself in that it was seamless, felt like it had always been part of the tune, that insisting thrumming, that plucking that followed his melodies and improved on him, dancing around the edges and creating a counterpoint of its own. 

He didn’t miss it when his voice dropped in, to play with Gwen’s, to cut over the top of the crew, to lead. 

Nor did he miss it when Morgana’s soprano gave a double to it, and the three of them wove an intricate knot, in and out, and round about, and all around the corners, and the next time he looked up, as Kay’s accordion lurched to a halt, it was half two. Morgana looked fully ten years younger, and positively radiant, and her dark hair had unplaited itself fully and sprung about her shoulders like a robe. Gwen was beaming at her, from across the lounge seats, the dingy fabric stained and worn, and the remains of beer coasters at her feet like a royal carpet. Arthur, at some point or other, had found the chairs too confining, and was lying prostrate on the ground with his guitar atop him, within kicking distance, and so Merlin kicked him, gently though, because he didn’t want to dislodge Aithusa, nor stop playing. 

Arthur looked up, but didn’t stop. There was a twinkle in his eye, which made Merlin concerned, concerning which Merlin was right, for Arthur took a left turn into a ballad and swerved them all to a halt. “For here’s a health to the man and the maid,” with a wink to Kay, and another to Gwen, who swallowed her sound wholly down, and “here’s to the jolly dragoon,” kicking Merlin back with somewhat more force, causing Merlin to clutch Aithusa tightly, and accidentally turn her off completely “we’ve tarried here all day and drank down the sun, let’s tarry here and drink down the moon,” he sang out with a final two emphatic chords, and let his hand drop down.

Merlin shook his head. There was a general ruckus as people rose to their feet, and not one or two concerned looks at Morgana, who had promised a small amount of ass kicking, and was instead a prime offender, as the crew scuttled off. 

“That was a brave bit of playing there, my dears,” said Kay, sliding his accordion back into its case, much smaller than Merlin had thought possible. “I hadn’t known you had it in you, Morgana, but I’ll not forget it, next time you shout, no, I’ll come sooner than soon. ‘Twas lovely. Me for bed, my dears.”

He clapped Merlin on the shoulder as he left, and Merlin remembered once more just how big and threatening he’d supposed Kay to be. “He’s lovely,” Merlin remarked, as he unplugged and slid Aithusa back in, to no one in particular. 

“Yes, he is,” said Gwen. “He’s a big softie. He’s a son up in Somerset your age, I think. Give me the guitar now,” she nudged at Arthur with her foot. “I’ll take it with me. She needs a tune after that. And a rest.”

Arthur held his hand up straight, perpendicular to his body, with the guitar coming along with it, parallel. Merlin tried very hard not to admire his arm muscles, but it was half two and he was only human. 

“How about I just rest here, Morgana? How much trouble would we be in if Uther caught us, do you think? Yes, yes, I know. Go to bed, Arthur. C’mon Merls. You’re brushing your teeth this time, no excuses.”

Merlin shut his mouth, for it seemed pointless. Morgana smiled sweetly, watching the exchange. “Yes, I think that would be best. Take the jolly lad and go. Gwen, I’ll be up in a minute or so, I’ll do the update from down here. Go on, do.”

Aithusa was light again, as he climbed the stairs. Arthur had seemed disinclined to move, and Merlin was startled to find himself suddenly crowded in the bathroom, dutifully foaming up his teeth. He spat, and Arthur looked surprised right back at him. 

“I’m brushing my teeth. You told me to.”

Arthur looked suspicious. “You usually don’t. Is this a cunning plan, to lure me into complacency, and then you push me out of bed? Or some sort of thing where you’ve put soap in my toothbrush?”

Merlin looked at him in the mirror. “Where I come from, we don’t do that. That must be one of those fancy English boarding school things. I respect other people’s bodily integrity.”

“You kicked me!” 

“I respect other people’s bodily integrity when they are not gigantic prats who sneak up on me out of nowhere.”

“I was literally on the floor. You saw me come in. Unless you were so consumed with the passion of your music making, like one of those wankers who plays in Albert Hall.”

Merlin thought about it for a nanosecond. He had been. And he would like to play Albert Hall. But the football stadium they’d started with was quite nice. There wasn’t a good answer. He spat his toothpaste out for good measure again.

“Anyway, I’m going to bed.” he pronounced stiffly, Arthur having observed the whole unsatisfactory spitting process without comment.

“You do that. But first pack our bags again. After all that, we’re not going to have much time in the morning, and you don’t want to miss the bacon again. It was really good, nice and crispy.”

Merlin sighed. He thought about arguing that it wasn’t his job to pack Arthur’s clothes, and then he thought about bacon, and lastly he thought about bed. It all seemed very much too hard.

Arthur did not catch him rubbing the diet velvet t-shirts on his face, and both bags were packed, Merlin tucked in bed, and half asleep by the time Arthur reappeared. Merlin told himself that he was not going to watch Arthur get undressed, because that was a silly thing to hope for, but it seemed that Arthur had somehow managed to take care of that step in the bathroom, for he slid under the covers without any further process involved. There was a brief but violent struggle by Arthur with the bedclothes, the highlight of which was the bottom blanket being kicked suddenly up, and a foot extracted, and then it was all quiet on the Arthur front. 

Momentarily.

“Six am for a jog, yes? It’s a long time to be sat still, that bus. I won’t last. I’ll save you bacon, I promise.”

Merlin sighed. The bed was very comfortable. It seemed to want him to stay in it. 

“Go on, you need it more than I do, you numpty, sat on your bottom with your deck all day. At least I’m standing. You’ll come. I’ll make you a bacon buttie to take on the bus. We’ll smuggle them on.”

Merlin turned on his back. The ceiling seemed to be watching him, and he turned back to face Arthur’s form in the dark. 

“I’d be doing you a favour, really. In fact, yes, this is something you need more than me.” Remarked Arthur.

“Me! Can I remind you, it wasn’t your pants that were falling down this morning, oh no,” said Merlin, emboldened by the dark. “I don’t have any problems in that direction, thank you very much.”

“Are you, and think very carefully about this one, calling me fat? I’m not a metre away, Merlin, and it would be very easy to reach you from here, so think very well before you continue in that line, thank you very much, Merlin. I’ve had poems written about my arse before, I’ll have you know!”

Merlin thought very hard about the wisdom of teasing Arthur any further. He thought very very hard about the idea of Arthur being less than a metre away, and whether he could irritate Arthur into his own bed. He thought about Arthur being all het up, and heaving chested, and lip biting, right up in his personal space, and how much that would be quite a very lovely thing indeed, and then he thought he had better stop thinking that way, before Arthur threw something at him for being quiet.

“Yes, I can believe that people have written poems in which you are called an arse, yes. 6 am, did you say? Bacon buttie? Thanks Merlin for packing my bag? No problem at all. Good night, Arthur.”  
He turned resolutely to face the other wall, ignoring the sputtering coming from Arthur’s direction, and thought about Aithusa, and wiring problems, until he could go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by:  
> Blackbird (Sam Lee)  
> White Room (Cream)  
> Get a new one (Kosheen)  
> The Bird in the Bush (trad.)  
> I can see clearly (Hothouse Flowers)


	5. Cornwall

The seagulls are doing it wrong, in Merlin’s opinion. Seagulls shouldn’t sound quite as mournful as all that. They don’t in Anglesey, that’s all he’s saying. They’re happy and perky and steal your chips.

These ones would cheerfully down a boat by sheer force of will and caw about it afterwards. He wouldn’t put it past them. And these seas are brutal looking. All big grey snow caps, and ship wreckers too. Yes, he sees the harbour walls, thank you Penzance, but he doesn’t trust it. 

It’s not that he wants to be on the boat with the actual Bane members. He doesn’t. He’s just worried about them. 

They’ve been here for two days, one concert. Last night, there was no music. Of course, there’d been the concert and all, but after that, everyone was too knackered with all the drama, and not even Merlin could keep an eyelid up, Aithusa’d been as heavy as a log, and the bed, although lacking in comfort, was flat and still and sufficient. Arthur hadn’t come in until after he’d conked out, and slept through his alarm. He didn’t look at all angelic as Merlin tiptoed out so as not to wake him, and he’d even thanked Merlin for the bacon buttie politely, although he’d looked like his head was away with the pixies, if there were pixies here. There probably were, it being Cornwall. Just here, specifically, isn’t probably the best place for them to be.

No, he’d much prefer what he’s doing right now, with Morgana. Because it is liberating, it is bracing, to not have to hide Aithusa in her physical shell. She’s bobbing about in the winds up here, darting the clouds about like giant fluffy obstacle courses, swooping down on Morgana’s head like she’s as small and non threatening as the seagulls, as normal a sight to see, and perhaps she is here, for all he knows. He’s asked her to be good, and so far she’s only eaten a couple of them, and left the sheep alone. She’s also, so far as he can tell, going thin in visibility, so that only he and Morgana can see her, either that or Penzance is full of very magic tolerant individuals. They’d have to be, if there were as many pixies here as he suspects. He keeps seeing them out of the corner of his eye, ducking back into hedgerows, down in with the rabbits, and in one memorable instance, pretending to be a garden gnome.

Morgana’s not looking quite as happy as he’d expected. He hadn’t meant to bring her here, he really hadn’t. He’d let his feet do the walking, and he really should have known better. There are nineteen stones, or perhaps more, he’s not taking the time to count, not with Aithusa taking the bulk of his attention, and Morgana the rest. He can feel, now that he’s thinking about it, the buzz beneath his feet. It’s a little tingly. It’s a good distraction, after what happened last night.

“She’s inexhaustible, isn’t she? Little darling.” Morgana cooed up at Aithusa, who was currently, at full wingspan and exuberance, pushing something like 4 metres. 

“Unlike the rest of us, that’s for sure,” muttered Merlin gloomily, remembering. It wasn’t as if Val had even done a good job, when he’d done it.

Morgana looked at him, and the tenderness she’d been wafting up at Aithusa had entirely vanished. “It wasn’t on my rundown sheet for that to happen, you know. You know that. Once they’re out on that stage, I only have so much control, and I’m only admitting that to you.”

Merlin kicked at the closest standing stone. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Believe or not all you like, it’s true. Uther would go spare if he ever thought I was trying to control the band. Absolutely spare.”

“If not you, then who?” Merlin looked at Aithusa, who was dive bombing a rabbit. The rabbit evaded the flames by a whisker. 

“Why him, of course. He thinks he’s in control, and so he is, while they’re on the stage. He likes to encourage the competition between them. Surely you’ve noticed. Today, it’ll be about who brings back the most fish, or pukes the most times, or buys him a beer first. It’s always worse when they’re on tour.” Morgana sat atop one of the stones, almost too casually for Merlin’s liking. 

“Arthur’s his own son! And far better than Val could ever dream of being. And you saw how they all were afterwards, all surly and such. I don’t like it.”

Aithusa dove at the ground with great velocity, and pulled up only at the last second, coming to a less than graceful landing between the stones.

“You’re not asked to like it. Just do your job, and let Arthur deal with it. He’s had enough practice, for heavens’ sake. He’s used to it by now, surely. It’s just how Bane is. Take him out tomorrow for a nice jog or something. Let him burn off the energy. You’re good for him that way.”

Merlin waved at Aithusa, who was currently investigating the grass with her nostrils, and trying to eat the dirt. She ignored him.

“Stop it, do. I’ll let you fly again tomorrow if you let the grass alone. The nice people won’t let you in the field if you eat it. Go see if you can find a snake in the hedgerow or something.” 

If a dragon could sulk, she was doing it now, with every fibre of her non corporeal being. Every stomp of her oversized white feet. Every ounce of the breath she took, as she dissolved herself back into the case, watching Merlin every second of the way like a grumpy teenager, reluctantly tidying her room. Spitefully, she zapped him with a little bolt at the last second, and he nursed his finger, sucking on it against the sting. 

“Morgana,” he said, around his finger. “do you know whether anyone else in the crew is, you know, like us?”

Morgana shook her head, and pulled his finger out of his mouth. “No. Or if they are, they keep a lower profile than I do.”

“And you don’t use it, right?”

Morgana looked intrigued. “No. How would I? It’s only the dreams, like I said. How would I do it?”

Merlin shook his head, and grabbed at Aithusa’s handle. “If it’s not you, then I don’t like it. I want a closer look at the bus. At the guitars. At the stage. Trust me?”

Morgana looked grim. “Are you saying that Val’s doing something to Bane? Because if he has, I’ll have his bollocks. Shredded into bits so tiny they’d need an electron microscope to see them. I’ll have his fingers for an eel pie. I’ll – “

The tingle was coming stronger through his feet now, and the air was hazing. The clouds were thickening, and the air pushing harder on Merlin’s skin. 

“Do you know,” said Merlin, as calmly as he could, “I think it would be best if we went now. Quite immediately. If you don’t know what you’re doing, I’m concerned about what you might do. If you do know what you’re doing, then I think you should stop. Aithusa wouldn’t be happy if you blasted a hole in the grass that she wanted to eat.”

Morgana went quiet. Then thoughtful, caressing one of the stones as they left the circle. She didn’t speak as they descended back to the hostel that Morgana had commandeered, and it fell to Merlin to both carry Aithusa and the picnic blanket, and to make light amusing conversation that did not touch on magic, Arthur or band management, the upshot of which was that by the time that they reached the hostel, Merlin had told Morgana all about his mother, his absent father, his crush on Tom Hardy, and his hatred of Margaret Thatcher. It hadn’t even been that long a walk. Merlin would have, no doubt, accidentally revealed many other fascinating details about himself, except that it was impossible for him to ignore that the tour bus was now pulsing with energy, which wasn’t his, and which he now understood not to be Morgana’s, and he fell silent, the better to examine it, in the same way that he would have turned off a radio to focus on a map. 

It wasn’t, entirely, a bad feeling. Like a bruised shade of purple, if Merlin had to give it a colour. The lines were trailing about the bus like a jellyfish, head at the front, tentacles towards the rear. He reached out his left arm, to see if he could feel it, and dropped the picnic blanket.

Morgana picked it up, without comment, and took Aithusa’s case from him. 

“I’m just going to – “ he said, as he stepped towards the bus, with both hands up, and stopped. 

It felt a little sticky, but not unpleasant, when he concentrated. It wanted him to be happy. It wanted him to do his best, for the band, and not to be late. It wanted him to be content. Merlin wasn’t.  
He stepped back towards Morgana. “I’m just going to, uh, look under the bus.”

“I’ll be the lookout,” said Morgana, in a conspiratorial tone. “I’ve always wanted to feel like an Enid Blyton character. Pity there’s no lashings of ginger beer. Perhaps after.”

Merlin ignored her, and tried to keep his shirt down and his dignity up as he wriggled on his back under the front of the bus. It was impossible, on both counts.

His task was made slightly more difficult, as Merlin had no idea exactly what the underneath of a bus was meant to look like. His mother’s attempts at giving him a driving lesson had stalled when he’d stalled for the third time on a busy expressway. There had been nothing about what cars were meant to look like if you went under them. There were a lot of greasy things, pipes, and such, which looked like they were integral to functioning. Merlin left them alone. Merlin closed his eyes, for a second, and focussed on what he couldn’t see. 

There were the ley lines, passing under him and up to the hill where they’d been, back into quiescence, now that Aithusa was asleep, a low hum like a base note. Morgana’s presence glowed at the edge of the car park, a red with sparky bits which he should probably do something about sooner rather than later. 

This was something else, this purple, and the tentacles he’d felt about the bus extended down, and around, and if he reached up his hand, just up to there, he’d be at the spot from which they emanated. He didn’t want to reach up his hand. The spot was a dark green presence, and it felt like it was going to bite him, like a venus fly trap. Merlin told himself, very sternly, that he wasn’t a coward, and his hand was encased in all sorts of good, useful skin, that was going to protect him. Then he visualised his arm encased in armour, just in case that would help, because why wouldn’t you, and reached up.  
It felt just as gross as he imagined it was going to. Greasy, from the engine, and the grease had soaked into the straw of what, when he pulled it down and looked at it, was a crude poppet, smeared with something that smelt foul. He told himself again about the armour, and felt a little better. What felt much better, after he’d wriggled his way back out again and showed it to a suitably shocked Morgana, was setting fire to it in a trash can, and feeling the lines about the bus dissipate into nothingness. He’d not actually consciously meant to cast the fire, but he felt better after he’d done it. 

“Was it – purple?” asked Morgana, as he washed at his hands violently at the outside tap, spraying his pants in the process. 

Merlin nodded. “I’m going to need to look at the guitars too, I think. Just in case.”

Morgana shook her head, transferring the weight of Aithusa to her other hand. “After. They’ll be back any second, and you were half an hour under there. There’s nothing he can do on the stage. Save it for after.” She transferred Aithusa back to him, and wiped her hands on the picnic blanket. “This has been, I won’t say lovely, but it’s certainly been educational.”

Merlin looked at his hands, which were still black with grease, and pink where Aithusa’d made her displeasure known. “It always is, isn’t it? I’m sorry about that.”

Morgana yawned behind a polite hand. “I’m not. I’d prefer to know than not.”

There was crunching on the drive behind them, and Morgana’s face transformed once more, as did her manner, back into the tall imposing persona, rather than the one who’d watched his dragon fly, and eaten marmite sandwiches in the grass. “Now you’d best scoot, if we’re going to get you on time to the rundown, and not annoy your manager. She’s not in the best of moods now, I can tell you that for free.” 

Turning to see the inevitable, Merlin managed to dislodge the picnic blanket once more. 

“Honestly, Merlin,” said Arthur, crunching the gravel as he reached over to pick it up, very much too suavely for Merlin’s liking. “You look like you’ve entered a wrestling match with an octopus, and lost. Or was it a cow?” He spat on his handkerchief, and reached.

“No!” squawked out Merlin, stumbling out of arm’s reach. “Not again.”

“Morgana,” said Uther from behind. “A word, please. Inside.”

The rest of Bane passed Merlin with only the slightest of jostles and Arthur used the opportunity to grab for Merlin’s neck, which Merlin thought frightfully unsporting given he was hampered by the need to hold Aithusa, and thoroughly justified his use of elbows, which Arthur had told him previously were as sharp as knives and as bony as fish fins. Arthur yelped when an elbow hit home in his gut and Merlin used the opportunity to run for the door.

Sadly, as Merlin should have remembered, Arthur was a good deal faster than him, and got there first. For a moment, a brief shining moment, Merlin thought he’d made it, and then Arthur had him by the neck. Merlin was unceremoniously frogmarched up the stairs, Arthur pausing only long enough to allow him to deposit Aithusa on the smaller of the two beds, and into the shower.

“The full four minutes, Merlin. Under your nails and behind your ears. Don’t think I won’t check, because I will,” called Arthur from the other side of the door. Merlin sighed. There was nothing for it. The shower was freezing cold, even with a careful application of wishful thinking, and a generous application of coconut bodywash, and there was no time to linger neath a hot spray and wishfully wonder what it would be like to have company, and what that company’ blond chest hair would feel like under a good dose of soapy bubbles. Arthur wasn’t even there to check when he came out to get changed, which was both good and disappointing at the same time.

There was no time before the sound check to look things over, Gwen had the guitars locked away, and there were already crowds heaving between him and the stage. It was probably fine. It’d been fine every night before, so, provided luck was with him, he’d check it after. 

He should have known better. He really should have. It wasn’t until Ready for War that the spell revealed itself.

He’d been expecting tendrils of something or other over one guitar, and was willing to have placed money, could he have found anyone willing to take the bet, on it being Arthur’s. Some sort of magical brake fluid, or sticky glue, something aimed at shortening the gap. 

He wasn’t expecting to see tendrils all over the stage, or rather, not tendrils, but the body of a slithering snake, encoiling around and about Arthur, and Owain, and Lot, and a head triumphantly emerging from Val’s guitar, complete with fangs, which seemed to be glistening with venom. Dripping, with it, rather, because Merlin could see the splashing from Val’s boots, as he kicked his way across the stage towards Arthur. He couldn’t understand it for a minute, why no one was screaming. There should have been panicking crowds bursting for the exit, and there was nothing but the usual tone deaf lyric belters hitting through his noise cancelling headphones, nothing but what a Bane concert usually consisted of, and Arthur seemed completely at ease, completely in charge of the situation, just as he’d had been last night. He was good at that, the whole calm in the face of battle thing. Particularly when he didn’t know there was a giant magic invisible snake going to bite him. Merlin wasn’t so good at that, probably because he could see it. Merlin was having, in point of fact, a very hard time keeping a lid on Aithusa, who seemed to have a thing about snakes, and he decided, in point of fact, fuck it. It was the second concert, it was close to the end, she was a very cool dragon, and he could play it off as special pyro effects. Besides, it was probable that Morgana wouldn’t kill him, and he liked those odds better than the odds of Arthur getting through Ready for War unbitten. 

Therefore, at the bridge, when he knew, point of fact knew that Arthur was going for the solo, and Val would cut in first, and suspected, not knew, that that’s when the snake thing would manifest, because if he was Val, which he’d never want to be, that’s when he’d do it, he let Aithusa manifest. 

She wasn’t hungry anyway, he reassured himself. She’d had a good fly, she’d been fed, and she’d eventually behaved last time. It was practically safe as houses.

It was not, in point of fact, safe as houses. Aithusa was incredibly excited to be out during a concert again. There was a great deal of wing flapping, and swooping about the stadium, and enough small reactions from the crowds, pointing, and phones held up for photos that led him to believe that Cornwall was more than averagely populated with people sensitive to if not all kinds of magic, at least dragons. Then, when she noticed the giant snake on the stage, she pulled her wings in close, and aimed like he imagined ship to air missiles might aim, with about the same velocity, and landed with a screech that was awfully close to feedback, and which he might pass as the same, and started laying into the snake, with talons, which shook the stage, to which he accompanied a good deal more bass than was typical for Ready for War, and snapping of teeth, and finally, flames. There was nothing he could do about either of those. 

Or for Val, who had been holding the guitar about which the snake was centered, and consequently bore the brunt of Aithusa’s flames. 

The pyro safety crew, on the other hand, had a whole routine for it, which they put into good effect, and it was at that point that the crowd stampeded. Merlin stayed put. There was no way of reaching the stage, and even if he’d got there, the pyro safety crew had Val, and he was presumably either dead, or on his way to hospital with some degree of burning. There was an understandable amount of chaos, and screaming, and the stage crew did their valiant best, but there was only so much that could be done to guide the saves of people, and Merlin was not equipped to do anything but hold the deck, hold the booth and wait it out. 

Aithusa, who had been circling the stadium roof, and adding to the chaos with her own brand of warbling, also took another half hour to wait out the crowds, and take herself back into the case, giving Merlin a mighty lick, all charcoal and satisfaction, as she did so. Merlin had never, in point of fact, been responsible for perhaps killing someone before. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling at all. He managed to wait until all the crowds had gone before he threw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by:  
> Danger! High Voltage (Electric Six)  
> A Hero's Death (Fontaines DC)  
> Brother Wolf; Sister Moon (The Cult)


	6. Taps

He can still smell it, he thinks, the burning, it’s come with him. Aithusa’s safely in the bus, in her case, or at least as safe as it is possible for a dragon to be, which is not at all. Never. Not going to happen again.

Morgana texted him, an hour ago, to tell him to come back to the pub. That he’s in an induced coma, but it’s not looking good. That Arthur’s not even a bit burnt, and has been asking where he is, in less polite phrasing. That the instruments are fine, except of course, for Val’s, which is cactus.

Gaius messaged him, very pointedly sharing a story about a recording studio that had burnt down, the one next but one suburb over from Bane’s current one, you know, where KIL is housed, and a suggestion that Merlin give him a call, when it’s safe to do so. Just to chat. Just to see if there’s anything that he’d like to share, when he’s back at the hostel. 

Gwen left a voicemail to ask if he was okay. She’d sounded a bit wobbly. If he was a better friend, he’d go back to check if she was. She’d been closer, backstage, probably seen Val burn. Smelt it. 

He can’t go back. Not now. The castle ruins are dark, and grey, and smell of the sea, at least when he’s his eyes open, which he’s trying very hard to do.

If he hadn’t done it though. If he’d let it go on, and kept Aithusa in, Arthur’d be dead, and he can’t let that happen. He can’t even think about letting that happen. That’s in a big black box, with a padlock on it, down in the furthest dungeon of his head with a DANGER DO NOT OPEN sticker loud and red. 

No, he couldn’t have let it go on. There was no part of him that could have let that happen, and he doesn’t think he was meant to. It’s not that. It’s not even that Val was killed, because from the sticky sluglike feel of that snake oozing across the stage, the putrid purple and green rearing up, and dripping out, he knows full well it was Val not just trying for a solo. For whatever reason, that song would have ended with Arthur’s death. Something awful and painful for the whole crowd to see. For Merlin to see, and for Arthur to die in, and for that alone, Merlin’s quite happy to have been judge, jury and executioner. Aithusa was meant to fly, and Val was meant to meet his fate on that stage, and he was meant to allow it. It’s not a nice thing to discover about yourself, at the age of twenty four, that you can do that, but it’s better to know than not, surely. He just needs to work that through, if he has time, which he doesn’t. He’s not really upset about that. 

What he’s actually upset about is a little darker twist on himself than that, that he’d discovered, as Aithusa dove, and flamed, and the feeling rose up in his gut, not so much of revulsion, no. He’d found himself jealous of his own dragon, not for the joy of flight, or the power of her wings, but of that horror. If someone has to kill for Arthur, he’d selfishly rather it be him that does it. He can feel it, still, under his skin. His magic’s all charged up, and ready to go. It’s like the feeling at the clubs, when he’s building the music to the drop, he’s cranked the crowd to his beat, and they’re hanging on it, waiting for it, at the end of his fingers, hands in the air at his command. It’s like the moment before his body relaxes down into bed, the moment before euphoria. The second before his brain whites out. It’s like the chase of a high. It’s the hold of the knife waiting to cut, and if he doesn’t let it out soon, before he goes back, he’s going to hurt someone, and he’s going to like doing it. And that can’t happen.  
He can’t even actually remember how he got here, after he put Aithusa in the hold of the bus. He remembers the crunch of the gravel in the road from the stadium, the grass tracks up and out of the village, but beyond that, he’s drawing a blank. He’s in a castle, at the end of the world, or so it feels. It’s dark, dark enough that he can’t quite see where the sea ends and the sky begins, that the seagulls are echoing out to sea in the dark, and more dark than any person with common sense would think was a good time to be in a castle at the end of the world, full of salt spray and bile. He’s never been quite so alone in all his life, and he’s glad of it, for a change. It’s safe enough to let go, he can feel it. The sky’s ready to go and it’s calling for him.

So he does. 

His fingers reach out to the sky, or where the sky should be, above the grey stones that he can see, and towards the ocean that he can’t. There’s something pushing down on him, and something pushing out from here, every square centimetre of skin under pressure, ready to burst. He can feel the energy building from the sole of his feet, up to the pit of his stomach and bypassing his heart, all the rage that he’d felt at the tangled line about the bus, about the stage, about Arthur, all the thirst he’s felt over the last month, the last six months, the need to touch that which he couldn’t, all the frustration, of bottling it all down, at keeping them all safe from him, all of that building like the stretch of an elastic band, he lets it build, and build and build until he can’t hold it anymore, too much to carry, to bear, to hold back and it goes. It all comes out, in an torrent, a white stream, a circuit that’s built of him, and land, and sky and clouds, and there’s a tremendous thundercrack, as it meets and illuminates the clouds, ricocheting about the sky for kilometres about, revealing the castle, the keep, the waves beneath breaking like shattered glass, and the noise of it is deafening. 

It continues, or so it feels, for minutes, pouring up from the land, and up through him and out, until he forgets what it was like not to feel this, to be part of it.

It continues and continues until it continues no more, and he’s reeling back from the cliff edge, and little stones are skittering to the water below. 

The ground feels damp, and there is rain falling on his face. He’s scraped his hands, somehow, somewhere, and he can feel the little cuts stinging in the water. 

He can still see the lightning. It’s almost embarrassing how much of it there is, red and bright brilliant white, and how chaotic, it’s buzzing about like a million angry bees, with no queen, and Merlin thinks hard about encouraging it out to sea, up to space, far far away, and gradually, little by little, it does, until he’s alone again in the silence. Except he’s not.

Someone’s in the castle, finishing up a trumpet solo, fading as the thunder’s echoes roll out. Bright, and vibrant, in a good way, not the way his energy’s just bled itself out. Sparkling like a can of pop just opened, and somehow sad as well, and Merlin tracks the melody of taps in between the runs the player’s tracking, but this is the salient part, the melody is now both louder and closer. Which would be fine if Merlin had any energy left to deal with whoever it is, but after the last half an hour, he’s out. And of normal energy, he has none. It’s been a long day. 

Merlin wipes his face dry, and puts on his best gormless smile, and hopes that he’s not out of luck. 

In the dark, it’s hard to see what’s emerged from the shadows, there’s not much light from the lightning to speak of, and none from the moon. They seem to have an enormous, detachable nose, which they remove, and waive in his direction. Nobody was ever killed by a giant detachable nose, and Merlin’s shoulders drop down, just a little, as it shows itself to be a trumpet, intermittently gleaming in the reflected lightning, as it hits out to sea, and dark again. They seem to have a thick tree trunk neck, at least, until the wind swirls about them, and the neck reveals itself to be dark hair, longer than Merlin’s own, and there’s a smile to grace the covers of a magazine, and warm brown eyes quizzically offering him the trumpet, with a shrug.

“If you’re crazy enough to be out here tonight, you probably need this just as much as I do, yeah?” offers the man, and Merlin’s not fool enough to accept gifts from strange men in the middle of the night, especially when he can’t see their ears well enough to know if they’re fae or not. He’s learnt that one the hard way.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to sully anyone’s ears with the noise I can make with one of those things. Best not. But don’t let me stop you,” he says, and hopes it’s the right thing to say.

It must be, for the man strides to his side, slightly too close for a stranger, just right for a friend, and brings the instrument to his lips, carefully licking them, and pursing them just so, and then Merlin   
stops watching and closes his eyes, as the man plays stridently against the storm, and the lightning answers back and the thunder’s rolling out to sea, like a base guitar with a counter to the treble brassy tones ripping it up, and it’s irresistible. Merlin just has to give it a little nudge at the right time, and it falls into line, as sonorous as his keyboard on the best day, and he and the stranger send the storm out to sea and into silence.

It’s only after, in the actual silence, as the clouds clear and the stars emerge through the haze victorious, that he realises what he’s done. The man’s trying not to stare at him, from the side, holding the trumpet in a semi-relaxed hand, and muscles now much more tense than Merlin’s own, much larger than Merlin’s own, for he’s a tall streak of nothing, or so Arthur tells him often enough, and he can’t have that.

“I don’t – I won’t – it’s just that – “ he starts. He’s never been good at this bit, from the babe in the cot who’d scared his mam spinning the mobile, to the friend in the playground who hadn’t actually wanted his soccer ball extracted from the roof without hands, to the guy in the bar who hadn’t expected the levitating drink Merlin’s magic had accidentally offered him.

“No, it’s all good. It’s all good. What happens in the magic castle stays in the magic castle, right? After a couple of drinks, I’ve seen much worse. As long as we’re on the same side, eh?” He’s still side-eyeing Merlin, and the hand on the trumpet’s still gripping fairly tight.

The wind blows between them, and Merlin shivers. He can see the man’s ears now, and there’s not a hint of a point to them. 

“I’m Merlin. Merlin Rhys. I’m not going to hurt you.” He says in as calm a tone he can muster, and given that every muscle in his body feels like a wet pasta noodle left to soak in a saucepan for too long, there’s not a word of a lie to it. 

“Gwaine Summers. Likewise.” 

There’s a lightning strike out to sea, and Merlin waves it off. He’s suddenly very tired. 

“Tell me, Gwaine. Where the blazes are we?”

Gwaine laughs, a short bark. “I’ll take you back, my man, wherever you need to go. You’re at Tintagel. I’ve a car on the road up the hill, you’ll have passed it.”

It’s too hard to explain, and so Merlin doesn’t. It’s a little scramble out of the castle, which seems determined to try to keep him, putting up granite stone here, and tendrils of ivy there, to snare his feet, but he keeps an eye on the flash of brass of the trumpet up ahead, and more prosaically, the light of Gwaine’s phone, and he’s not too much more injured when they emerge. The sea’s pounding now, high treble stone smashing, and low growling waves, and he’d prefer to be elsewhere, now. 

He’s incredibly relieved to see the carpark, not miles and miles away as he’d feared, but a short hop up the hill, and the one lone, slightly dented, but very seaworthy little van, which Gwaine unlocks. 

There’s a well worn black case on the back seat, and Gwaine shakes his trumpet out before it’s lovingly stowed away, and secured, seatbelt and all. Merlin doesn’t have a car, but he’s impressed by how clean this one is, how lacking in scratches, or rubbish on the floors, the shine on the chrome, the vintage radio, probably an original, not that he’d know, the back made up for sleeping with sweet little curtains tied back with twine, the rightness of it all. It’s not what he’d thought to find, from the outside. It starts first go, also unexpected. The second hand Corolla his mam drives never does. He should probably do something about that.

There’s time enough on the long drive back to the hostel for Gwaine to interrogate him properly, and he does. After you’ve played a storm as jazz with someone, there’s not a lot of point holding back, not even about Aithusa, not even about his sad little crush on Arthur, and so he doesn’t. It’s strangely satisfying, to not have to, and he hadn’t realised how much he’d been crying until Gwaine tells him that the tissue box is in the glovebox, and he finds his cheeks wet. 

He blew his nose as loudly as he can, and stops talking. Gwaine fiddles with the radio, but nothing decent’s playing, and he’s half grateful when Gwaine turns it off and starts talking himself.

“You’re very good not to ask, after you’ve shared all your secrets and so generously too. And so I will count you as a friend, and tell you some of mine for free and let you find the rest on your own. Some of them won’t stay secret for very long, so I’m not doing much by telling them. This one, though, no one knows. I wasn’t expecting to be driving back to anywhere tonight, my friend, for it seemed to me that the world had no more joy in it for me, and I and my trumpet were poised to leave it, in a way that would give little trouble at all to anyone, bar the coastguard. I gave it a year, a year to mourn him truly, to hold his memory dear and I’d promised him that, to go on living. There was nothing, nothing to wonder at, or be amazed, or even to smile for the thought of it smiling back at all, not until tonight. He would have loved to see that, what we made out there. He would have smacked me soundly for missing it, if I had. Merlin, my friend, I think I shall ride alongside the Bane, for to see what other wonders you create, if only to avoid him chastising me when I meet him in the hereafter, for he had a sharp side to his tongue, for all his sweetness, and for all that I miss him, I do not miss his reproaches, of which I heard many.”

Merlin offered Gwaine his own tissues, but he waved them off. 

“And as for the other, why, I do not think that Uther can reasonably object to my tagging along, for I’ve done it before often enough. Morgana’s an aunt, of sorts, for all that she’s a year older than me. One of those things where you really don’t want to ask your mother for details. She thinks it’s very funny.”

Merlin blinked. Morgana was young, and vibrant, and with firm white bosoms to die for, if you were that way inclined. She knew memes. She had a smartphone and used it more passionately than he did. She didn’t seem old enough to be across the threshold of her twenties, let alone an aunt of any kind. Plus, for added horror, if Gwaine was Morgana’s nephew, did that make Arthur his uncle? Probably best not to think on it any further, and so he did not. Also, probably best that he took his phone off do not disturb, and at least told Morgana where he was, so that his bollocking would not be completely painful. There were too many red notifications on his phone, and he shut it again. He would just have to be bollocksed. His phone met his pocket, as they drew into the drive. All the lights in the hostel were on, and there was a squad car out the front. Merlin and Gwaine looked at each other with trepidation, and Gwaine pulled the car round the back, and turned it off. 

“I’ll come in with you and say hello to m’aunt. I’m sure it’s alright. And if it’s not, we’ll get your dragon and go. Room enough in the back for two, if we squeeze,” and Gwaine winked. 

The gravel underfoot was as dry as a bone, and Merlin dabbed at his damp clothes, unsuccessfully. He’d just have to make a quick dash for his room, and hope that no one noticed. 

Lady destiny was apparently having a superb time tonight, for the front door of the hostel was sufficiently stuck that it required a good shove to open it, and said good shove caused said door to swing back on its hinges, once it finally gave, with a mighty slam to the wall, which drew the attention of the gathered Bane masses, from Uther down all the way to the lowliest stagehand, all sombre, and all silent, and now, all looking at Merlin with expressions ranging from horror to disgust, which was not very nice. In the centre, next to Uther, were two policemen.

Merlin would have tripped on the doorstop, were it not for Gwaine’s arm about his shoulders holding him steady. It was comforting, like they’d been friends forever, rather than friends only for a few hours, and Merlin leant on him lightly, before he saw Arthur’s frown, and Morgana’s beckoning finger, indicating the space at her feet on the floor.

He was as quick as he could be, stepping over legs here, and arms there, and around all the chairs and knick knacks in the foyer, but Uther still looked ready to have him disembowelled, and Merlin made himself smile in as disarming a fashion as he could. Gwaine leant up against the back of Kay’s chair, and rested his hand on his shoulder in a friendly fashion, and they appeared to have a very friendly conversation indeed. Morgana, on the other hand, gave Merlin a very stern look, and then looked back at Uther, and the two police people.

“As I was saying,” said Uther pointedly, “Morgana has issued you the plans for tomorrow night. Senior Detective Aredian will be backstage, and Constable Hopkins will be on patrol, just in case the miscreant strikes again. Valiant’s funeral will be arranged as soon as his next of kin can be contacted. You’ve had ample opportunity now to voice your concerns, and they have been heard. You are all to be commended for your management in our time of crisis, and I assure you that it will not be forgotten. You are dismissed. If anyone considers that they may need it, Morgana has the number of a therapist, for what good that might do anyone.”

He stood, pushing back his chair, as did the police men, and marched from the foyer into the entrance hall, where they could be observed having a quiet further word. Merlin shivered. And again.

Morgana poked him with a toe. “Read your messages. Come find me at breakfast and I’ll kill you then.”

“Fair enough,” muttered Merlin, pushing himself shakily up. “Look forward to it. Love a good death, me.”

Several people turned and looked blackly at him. He shook his head, and the room spun a little. “Not what I meant. Fuck.”

“You,” said Arthur. “Eat this.” He shoved a sandwich into Merlin’s hand. It was a little warm, and a little squashed. Merlin took a bite, to be polite, and then shoved half of it in his mouth at once, as the hunger hit. It was revolting and the best thing he’d ever eaten, at the same time. With the sandwich half hanging out of his mouth, Merlin found himself dragged out of the foyer, and up to their shared room at a slightly quicker pace than his feet liked, but the end result, a warm dry room with no angry large men in it, not counting Arthur, was to his liking, and so he did not complain, other than to maintain form.

“I don’t know what you were thinking. Were you thinking? No, don’t answer that, I’ll be disappointed if you say yes, because leaving us like that was, frankly, insane. You went to a pub, didn’t you, cried into your beer, and that’s where you picked up bloody Gwaine, because he can’t help himself, not with blokes that look like you.”

Merlin swallowed the last of the sandwich. “What do I look like?”

“Stupid. Stupid, sad, gullible and wet.” Arthur threw a dry shirt and pants at him. Merlin caught the shirt but not the pants. “Go on. Get changed, you numpty. You’ll catch your death, and then where will we be? The press would have a field day. They didn’t find you, did they?”

Merlin shook his head. Perhaps he should have checked his phone.

“Not that I care. What would you tell them? It’s not like you know any more about it than the rest of us. Get changed, go on, what are you waiting for?”

Merlin’s shirt was, in fact, quite wet, and soggy. There was a fair amount of dirt, and blood, and a couple of quite good tears, which probably explained the horrified expressions from earlier. He tried to look at his back in the mirror, but only achieved the feat of looking like a dog unsuccessfully chasing his tail, and gave up. The shirt Arthur had thrown at him was one of the diet velvet ones, and felt as good as it had promised him, and Merlin patted it thankfully.

Arthur looked a fraction amused, but mostly tired. “Are you going to pat the pants, too? Or are you going to get the fuck on with it, so we can go to bed?”

“You can go to bed rather than mocking my relationship with this lovely shirt, it’s not like you’ve paid for a floor show. Go on, go do some of that famous toothbrushing you’re always on about.” Merlin threw the wet shirt at Arthur, who caught it much more neatly and threw it back at him, much harder. 

“Get changed, then. State you’re in, you’re going to fall asleep on your feet and hurt yourself, and then I’ll get no sleep tonight.” Arthur did, however, take his own pyjamas, and two steps towards the bathroom. “If I come back, and you’re not changed, there are going to be consequences.”

Merlin told his nether regions that he wouldn’t like there to be consequences, and as usual, they did not listen, but once Arthur left the room, he was quick enough to shuck his wet pants, which were equally as disgusting as his shirt, and pull up Arthur’s red boxers, which promptly slipped down his hips. He sighed. 

Then he checked his phone. His mother had called, and left a voicemail which was lovely and annoying together, and he saved it. Gaius had sent a further three messages, all about fires that had happened in places where KIL had been on tour, and really, that was belabouring the point, which he’d understood the first time around. Morgana’s fifteen messages were identical, after the first, which reported simply that she had Aithusa locked in her room, safe and sound, each then asking crisply for Merlin to call Morgana immediately. Gwen had sent him a link to a mental health hotline, which was certainly something. From Arthur were there messages exactly none. He counted them, twice. Then he turned the bedroom light off.

Arthur was still brushing his teeth when Merlin joined him. He didn’t say anything, when Merlin started brushing, but spat and left. Merlin took care of business promptly, thought about a nice warm shower longingly as he wrung out his wet grotty clothes, and hung them on the towel rack to dry. 

“I’m sorry,” said Merlin, at a sufficiently loud tone so as to be heard through the bedroom wall. 

“For what?” said Arthur belligerently. “There are so many, many possible things for which you could be apologising. Am I meant to guess?”

Merlin sighed. Then left the bathroom. Arthur had taken the pillows off both beds, and made himself as comfortable as possible in his own. He surveyed Merlin from where he had propped himself up, and appeared not to be impressed with what he saw.

“It must have been awful. I’m sorry I wasn’t there this afternoon.”

Arthur laughed, a little short thing that wasn’t funny at all. “And what do you suppose you could have done? You’re a sound engineer, Merlin, last I checked. You’re not a miracle worker.”

Merlin got into his own bed, which was much less comfortable with half the blankets, and none of the pillows. “I could have helped. I could have listened, if you’d wanted to talk. I can now. I’m sorry I couldn’t before.”

Arthur punched the pillows around like he wished they were Merlin. “If you were crying into your beer, I’d have told you that no man’s worth your tears. Not Val, that’s for sure. He knew not to put his foot on the pyro display, and I know for certain that’s what set it off early. There’s no such thing as dragons, whatever the stage crew say.”

Merlin turned over, and looked at the wall. There was an interesting pattern, which repeated in on itself, tessellations for days. “Okay.”

“Bane will survive, as long as Uther does. It could lose us all, and Dad would find a way of continuing. There’s nothing irreplaceable about any one.”

Merlin sat up and turned back to Arthur. “I will punch you. I will punch you hard, in that pretty nose of yours, and then you’ll need surgery. That is such a stupid thing to say.”

Arthur shrugged. “It’s true. Val could play the guitar well enough, but so could twenty others. Dad’ll find someone. Nothing truer. He writes the songs, he writes the lyrics, he knows the sound, and we play it to his tune. We’re not important.”

“I mean it. I will come over there and punch you right now. That’s not how it should work.”

Arthur lay back further into his nest of pillows. “Don’t be a fool, Merlin. It’s how this is.”

Merlin threw back his covers, and started pacing up and down, absently turning the light back on. “Fine. I won’t punch you. You tell me, though, Arthur, how it should be. Say there’s no Bane. There’s no Uther. How should it be?”

He turned, and looked at Arthur, who looked abstracted. Also very warm and cosy in his nest of blankets. Merlin pulled his pants back up, before he lost them altogether. 

“Music,” said Arthur, finally, after a nice long pause during which Merlin began to feel like he should get back into bed and stop being dramatic, “should be bigger than any one person. It should be something that you build together better than you can build apart.”

“Yes,” said Merlin, pulling his covers back up to his chin, having given in.

“It should be something that comes from all the things you feel, not about what the charts tell you people want. It should be the things that come out of you unexpectedly because you can’t help it.”

Arthur threw back his covers and stood up, resuming the pacing that Merlin had left off. “It should be something that brings people together, that lifts you up into a better place.”

Merlin looked longingly at the pillow nest of Arthur’s best, and resigned himself to a crooked neck. “Do you think you could turn the light off?”

“It should be,” said Arthur turning the light off, and looking down at Merlin, “irresistible.”

Then he got back into his bed, with all the lovely pillows, and pulled up his covers, and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by  
> Burn the Fleet (Thrice)  
> Hide U (Kosheen)  
> Little Death (The Beths)  
> Rose Rouge (St Germain)  
> I get along without you (Chet Baker)


	7. All the things go wrong

Merlin’s up before Arthur. Probably because Arthur has all the delightful pillows and blankets and is still snuggled into them like a babe in a cot. Or how Merlin imagines a babe in a cot would be, he was an only child and he’s never babysat, don’t judge. Up well before the Arthur mandated time at which all the lazy daisies (principally Merlin) should be up, and forced into physical exercise outside in the cold fresh air. 

Merlin is not going outside in the cold fresh air, if he can help it. He’s an appetite on him like a thousand bears rolled into one, and he follows his nose to the kitchen, and sweet talks them into a plate of bacon, fresh out of the oven, and a little tray of danishes for which he has big plans, and a brace of little pork sausagelets, all steaming and sage-laden, and the yellowest of scrambled eggs. At a table in the corner of the breakfast room, he sits and eats them, marvelling at himself and his luck. At the half way mark, he stops to create a sandwich of peacemaking, to be offered as a diversion, should Arthur’s mood this morning be less than savoury. At full time, he’s not yet done, his appetite tells him, and his luck’s held, for the breakfast bar’s been laden as he’s sat there, and he eats another six pieces of toast, with thick butter from four of those little patties, and honey from eight. He hasn’t been counting the tea. He can feel his nose again, he’s pleased to see, and his senses are tingling with the awareness again of people, of movement, of life. It’s better than how he was, everything grey and silent.

He could still eat more, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. Lady Destiny doesn’t like to be asked. She likes to be thanked. On his way back to the waiter’s hold to deposit the dirties, because he’s been there and done that, and present Merlin wants past Merlin to be proud of him, he pours a libation of cold tea drips into a potted plant, and hopes it’s not plastic. 

When he looks up, he’s not alone, not that the other occupants of the breakfast room have spotted him, or so it appears, and he makes a little effort, feeling his magic respond again, to make sure it stays that way. Morgana’s poking at the toast, two plates before her, with a sad little pile of cut fruit, while Gwen’s pouring them both coffee, with a yawn. They’re holding hands. It’s not helping things, but they don’t seem to be caring. He puts his plate down as quietly as he can manage, and starts a long slow sidle out of the breakfast room, before he remembers Arthur’s breakfast butty. He thinks about abandoning it, and then he thinks about his soggy cheese sandwich from last night, squished from being held for many hours, no doubt. Warm, even, from Arthur’s dirty hands. 

During the time it’s taking him to sidle back to the table, Morgana’s collected her toast, and Gwen the drinks, and they’ve made it back to theirs, seated with the sweetest of kisses. Not quite the same calibre of kisses that Merlin would give his mam at breakfast, were they the sort to greet each other that way, which they weren’t. Merlin wouldn’t dream of slipping his mam the tongue, for a start, the way Gwen appears to be, or to be gently caressing her cheek, the way Morgana’s doing. He shouldn’t be here.

“He can’t hold it against you, it’s not your fault. It was purely an accident.” 

Morgana holds Gwen’s cheek tenderly. “Fault or no, I’m the manager, so it’s my responsibility. Uther doesn’t like it when things go wrong, and he looks for a scapegoat. I’m the manager, and that’s my job. I won’t have him searching any further for someone to shout at. Gods know he’s done it often enough, and I’m used to it.”

Gwen holds Morgana’s hand to her cheek. “It shouldn’t be. You slept barely a wink last night, and the little you did sleep, I didn’t, for worry on the things you were saying when you did. Valiant’s not left a curse, no such thing. It’s a shame that he died when he did. I’m sure that Bane’ll be fine. Uther will see reason, soon enough. Don’t start again now. Don’t.”

Morgana shakes her head, but drops her hand. “I’m sure you’re right. You’re always such a comfort to me, but I wish you didn’t have to be. Do you think it’s possible to have just one day, just one, with no drama? What would that even be like? Oh, and then I feel terrible, thinking about his death purely as how it inconveniences me. A man’s died, and I should feel something more than this. I’m sure I do, really, it’s just I don’t have time. Perhaps I should tell Uther to cancel tonight. Cancel the next five, just to see how public perception plays.”

Gwen regards Morgana over her coffee. “I can just imagine. ‘Morgana’,” she says gruffly, “’leave the public perception to me. Bane doesn’t back down. Bane plays through the pain. It’s our way.’”

Morgana laughs crumbs at her. “That is terrible and you should never do it again. But you’re right. I’ll suggest it anyway. Someone ought to, even if I know he won’t listen. The right thing to do would be to cancel. What Uther’s going to ask for is pipers. When in doubt, throw in a bagpipe.”

“A bagpipe, did you say? I have the pipes in the van, if you need them.” It’s Gwaine, at the door to the breakfast room. “Oh, hallo there Merlin. A fast diner, I see. With a sandwich to go. Is it for me? You shouldn’t have.”

Merlin puts it behind his back protectively. “I didn’t. Good morning, all. Don’t mind me, I’ll be back in less than a jiffy. Or I won’t. Depends on Arthur’s mood, really.”

Gwen looks confused, and Morgana slightly annoyed. “Don’t you dare. You sit back down here. We have things to discuss.”

Merlin edges more quickly towards the door, and Gwaine makes a grab for either him or the sandwich, and Merlin’s not hanging about to find out which. He’s out of breath by the time he’s climbed the stairs and run the length of the hallway, like he’s being chased by the seven hounds of hell, which he’s not, no-one’s chasing him at all, which all means that when he bursts the door of their room in, cradling the sandwich in his right hand in the same way he would cradle a baby if anyone was fool enough to give him one, and jiggling the lock with the other, he’s way too much of a head of steam up to be considerate of where he puts his feet, and stumbles his way directly onto Arthur’s bed. The sandwich wasn’t meant to land on Arthur’s face, and Merlin’s other hand wasn’t meant to land heavily on Arthur’s stomach. 

Merlin had had visions of how he wanted this morning to go. He’d had hopes, after breakfast had been so swimmingly excellent, of pulling back the curtains to allow the sunlight to gently caress Arthur’s golden locks, and see his eyelashes, which were indecently long, flutter awake, and allow Arthur his first glimpse of the comforting vision of a bacon butty, and Merlin of course, to give him solace after the horrors of last night, to bring him hope in his time of need. Then Arthur would say thank you, and look at Merlin with an eye of favour, and so on, and so forth.

This was not that. There was no eye of favour at all. This was crumbs and grease on Arthur’s nose, and cheeks, and eyes opening in an enraged fashion, and more swearing than Merlin had really thought necessary, and Merlin promptly being tackled to the floor and introduced to the carpet, with Arthur sitting on his back. From the sounds of it, he then started to eat the sandwich, or what was left of it. While he was sitting on Merlin’s back. As you do.

“I would,” said Arthur around bites, “ask for an explanation, but I think I know well enough by now that there’s not going to be a coherent one. So let’s skip that. Don’t upset Morgana like that again. If you need space, take it, by all means. Just text her first.”

Merlin would very much like to be let up. “Oh, Morgana was worried, was she? Just Morgana?”

Arthur punches his arm, and sits down more solidly, causing Merlin to gasp, just a little.

“Brown sauce next time, please. Oh, and it’s none of my business, but my cousin’s not known for his constancy. I’d watch myself, if I was you.”

Merlin splutters into the carpet incoherently. “It’s not – I didn’t – He was only –“

“Exactly. If you haven’t, I wouldn’t. I’ll pass the popcorn and you can watch how many of the crew he bags. It was twelve last time.”

Merlin collapses back into the carpet. Arthur, apparently mollified, finishes the sandwich, and taps Merlin on the shoulder. “Speaking of, c’mon, it’s time to pick him up for a jog. Tradition. Let’s go.”

The weight on his back is suddenly relieved. Merlin thinks about staying there, but the carpet’s not that clean. He turns over, and can see directly up Arthur’s nose, which is yellowed with yolk. “Won’t you, you know, throw up, after all that?”

Arthur throws his head back, and Merlin tries not to look up his shirt. “Cast iron stomach. C’mon, Merls, let’s go. I need to clear my head. Dad’s going to be intolerable today. Get your kit on.” He holds out his hand expectantly, and Merlin’s nothing to do but to take it. Arthur pulls a little harder than expected, and Merlin’s very aware, suddenly, of how close Arthur’s pulled him. He’s got that smile on, the disarming one, the real one, not the one from the posters with the airbrushing and perfect angles, this one’s all amused and warm and wholly aimed at Merlin and it’s a little overwhelming. He’s just a little shorter than Merlin, and his smile is right there, and his yolky nose, and Merlin convinces himself to rub it with his finger, rather than his nose, and not to lean in, in the way he’d like. This is not that. 

“Go on,” Arthur says, and pushes him towards his bag. “If you’re not done when I come out, I’m doubling down. Fair warning, mine’s in there, and I’m a quick change.” But he’s smiling still when he pats Merlin on the head, and he’s in the bathroom before Merlin realises that the bacon grease is now in his hair rather than on Arthur’s hands. Merlin thinks briefly about kicking up a fuss, then thinks about double the jogging, and gives in. He’s a navy pair of shorts that he’s finally found down the bottom of his bag, and he quickly switches into them, rather than pull on Arthur’s borrowed pair, which he’s been using the last week. They actually fit, which is nice, rather than sagging baggily down his backside. The shirt of wonder, which he’s now stolen from Arthur, can stay on. February isn’t that cold, not really, not by comparison, no matter what his nipples are warning him about the outside world. He’s stretching now, because Arthur’s mocked him often enough for a month of Sundays, when his royal prattishness finally deigns to emerge from the bathroom, having taken a donkey’s age, making sure his hammies are warm, just in case Arthur doubles down without warning, and he straightens back up slowly, to give all that breakfast room to settle. He doesn’t have a cast iron stomach, after all.

He turns abruptly, just in case Arthur’s sneaking up on him for another attack, he wouldn’t put it past him, but Arthur’s standing in the doorway like he’s run out of steam, with a look that indicates perhaps Merlin should have brought another sandwich, because it’s the hungry one that Arthur gets sometimes, towards the end of a session, particularly if it’s been a good one, the one that Merlin’s come to associate with lengthy sessions at the pub accompanied by many chips. He’ll bring two next time, just in case. 

“Daylight’s burning? Up and at ‘em?” he tries, but it’s not until Merlin turns and opens the door that Arthur moves, body heat again up against Merlin’s back, and he’s crowding Merlin so down the stairs, that Merlin can’t think to ask him why for fear that he’ll fall. 

“Nice sandwich, was it princess?” Gwaine’s leant up against the door, and Arthur’s hand falls hard on Merlin’s shoulder, pushing him on past. 

“Nice to see you again, too. Any sign of your da yet, then?” Arthur keeps up the conversation as they jog out the drive, and Merlin catches his breath and chokes. 

There’s the tour bus, which ought to be nice and clean, there’d been rain last night, he’s sure of it after the storm he kicked up. It’s covered in grime, until he blinks his eyes wide open, and then it’s fine again. 

“Nah, he’s still in bed, I gather, as is yours. Morgana’s looking better than I expected.”

“That’d be because they’re both out of her hair, I’d wager. Keep up, Merlin,” Arthur tosses back over his shoulder.

He’s going to have to find a way of looking at it, before the concert. Or at least before they leave Cornwall. He can’t look now, not with the pace Arthur’s setting. He focusses on his feet, one after the other, until he has his breath back under his control. Arthur’s taking them up out of the village, and past the stone circles, thankfully, he’s not sure what will be out and about after all that magic. Then he thinks to think about Aithusa. He’s a terrible parent. He needs to take her out, and cajole her into better behaviour.

There’s conversation going on, he’s aware, and Gwaine and Arthur are taking turns at sprinting up the path, first the little red shorts of Arthur, then the little black shorts of Gwaine, in a manner which clearly indicates long practice, and he’s no need to be involved in that little business. He’s spent his whole life staying well clear of those little contests, and he’s not about to start now. There are birds in the hedgerow, darting in and about, nesting material in beak. There are rabbits out on the green, and it’s a good job he doesn’t have the dragon out, for they’re very sweet and fluffy in the way that she finds exceedingly toothsome. There are daffodils thrusting their little spear heads through the grass everywhere that he looks, and the sky is blue, and he’s too happy of a sudden, even barring the clearly cursed bus, the presence of someone or something with ill intent to Bane, to hold it in. His legs are longer, he’s well aware, of either of the cousins, and he’s not even thinking about it anymore, when he overtakes. He’s too happy.

The pace he sets shuts them up, and they’re both flanking him when they complete the loop, and all three bend double in the drive to catch their breath. It’s at that point, of course, that Lot and Uther emerge from the hotel, with matching frowns, although Uther’s perhaps is of greater contempt, it being paired with wild eyebrows and bald head, and therefore more prominent, and Lot’s looks merely as if he had found Gwaine with mismatched socks, rather than disappointing him merely by existing, in the way that Uther’s does Arthur. At the same time, a head emerges from Gwaine’s van, that of Owain, and Lot’s frown intensifies to rival that of Uther.

“Gwaine. Some things never change, I see.” He turns to go back inside.

“Father. Were you going to tell me about the latest baby, or was I merely to read of it in the gossip mags? At least I’m responsible with mine, hey Owain?”

Owain ducks back inside the van. Gwaine laughs. 

“Sort yourself out. A man’s died, or have you forgotten?” says Uther, in much the same tone as he uses to pronounce a bad take, in the studio. With a sniff, as if to pronounce them all off as yesterday’s bad milk, he too turns, and re-enters the hotel.

Arthur stands, hands on his hips, watching the hotel, and the men disappearing inside it. Silent.

“I’ll use your shower then lads, eh? Ta very much. Morgana wants me to pipe tonight, so best be clean.” Gwaine shakes his hair out of his eyes, with the added bonus of showering Arthur and Merlin with his sweat, and holds out his hand. 

Arthur sighs, and deposits the room key in it. “Leave some hot water. Hotel soap only.”

Merlin tries to laugh, as Gwaine skips up the stairs. He does laugh, just a little, as they watch Owain scuttle out of his van, and follow him up. 

“That’s one,” he nudges Arthur with an elbow. 

“Mm,” agrees Arthur. “I thought Owain had higher standards. Guess I was wrong.”

Arthur doesn’t leave him be for the rest of the day, which is both very nice and very annoying, and very awkward, as he insists on talking to Merlin all the way through his shower, and Merlin has to turn the hot tap off. He can’t get at the bus, and he can feel it being wrong at him. He can’t get at Aithusa, and he can feel her itching her wings, metaphorically, for a fly. He can’t get his magic out, can’t bleed it into the ground without notice, with the police caution in place, watching. 

As dark falls at the stadium, Gwaine starts his drones, and Merlin shivers, down in the sound booth. There’s nothing he can do to help it, but then again, no one’s looking at him. Valiant’s not here, and there’s no indication of anything malevolent on stage, no purple tendrils tonight, but still he shivers, and he can’t stop, until the last drone of Amazing Grace fades out, and Bane’s ballad, No Fatherless Child, starts in. Gwaine’s clearly done this before, and he stays on stage throughout, and Merlin’s sufficiently distracted with balancing for the additional element so that Aithusa stays down, stays quiescent, even in Time for War, when she’s usually not. The crowd’s subdued, and there’s much less energy flowing from the band members than usual. There’s no battling guitars. Arthur’s not swaggering, and he’s avoiding the whole stage right, the bit with the darkened patches, the bits where the chars had been, and the stage crew had scrubbed for hours. Owain’s a touch flat, even when Gwen tweaks, and tweaks, in between songs, and looks irritated with her every time he takes it back, and it’s not right, even though Merlin’s certain that it’s been in tune when Gwen’s tweaked it, she’s never met a guitar she couldn’t make sweet if given a chance. Lot plays the bass line for Ready for War in Untold, and Uther fumbles, although he looks hard and dark at Lot for it. The lighting team muck up the spotlights, and highlight stage elements rather than band members. The pyro team has had the night off, but the lighting team haven’t compensated, and the end result is like a smile with missing teeth. The only one looking anywhere near normal is Agravaine, whose percussive elements are on point, and who even smiles at the end. Merlin does his best, his level best, to make them sound like Bane, but truth be told, they’re a hollow thing on most of them, and there’s no encore, where two nights before there’d been three.

On the bus, on the way back to the hotel, Uther shouts at them all, from Lot down to the lowliest of stage crew, but in particular Arthur, although Arthur’d not played even a note wrong. Arthur, because he’s Arthur, takes it all, just sits, and nods, and ‘yes father’s’ Uther, until Uther stops shouting. Merlin can see Arthur’s jaw clench though, and his legs tense up, making the whole seat tense with it.  
When Uther sits down, Morgana stands, and Merlin can feel the bus take a collective breath in, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

“That’s enough, for tonight. When we land at stadium 2, we’re going to go over some things. Do whatever you need to do tonight, pack your bags, and we’ll make a fresh start. Oh, and one last thing. Put your media contacts onto me for any questions. Uther is the voice of Bane, and Uther takes the interviews. If I see one quote, one unnamed deep source, if I see one thing leaked, I don’t care how small, I will find out which one of you did it, and you will be out on your ear. Media asks, it’s a hard time, Val’s greatly missed, but we’re as strong as ever, and please talk to Morgana about an interview with Uther. Yes?”

The bus choruses out a feeble yes, and for once, Morgana doesn’t push it.

In the seat next to Merlin, Arthur relaxes down, and Merlin doesn’t try to talk either. He wouldn’t know what to say. The houses going by outside blend into one, all quiet, all asleep, as they drive through the suburbs, past all the normal people, doing normal things, living normal lives, and Merlin wonders if Arthur wishes he was one of them. Sometimes, Merlin wonders what it would be like. He wonders, briefly, if he actually knows anyone who fits in that category, and decides probably no one does. 

When the bus pulls into the hotel drive, after Uther descends from the bus in the manner of one who always walks on red carpet, even if it’s only imaginary, it’s chaotic. People yank things from the bus like it’s on fire and run into the hotel like there’s a time limit. Arthur holds Merlin back with one arm, and waits for everyone else to go. 

Then, and only then, will he let Merlin up. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Merls, my family’s just a bit not good. At anything bar the music. We give it five minutes, then we go in and put Bane back together again. With me?”

Merlin clears his throat. “Of course. Always. Yes. Just, how?”

The bus driver coughs. “Gents, I need to lock up. Off the bus, please.”

“Sorry, Tal,” says Arthur, as he pushes Merlin down the steps. “Merlin was half asleep. Leave us the trunk key, and we’ll lock up after.”

Tal does not look like he cares one way or another, as he locks the doors behind them and ceremonially hands Arthur the key, stuffing his hands into his overalls, and making for the hotel too. It’s a chill night, and Merlin looks at the door longingly, he can almost see the waves of heat dissipating into it, without doing their job of warming him first. Arthur slings an arm over his shoulders, pulling him unresisting into the garden, and he forgets the chill. He can’t look the bus over with Arthur hanging about anyway.

“It’s never great at the beginning of a tour, you know,” says Arthur, pulling him down onto a wooden bench that’s surrounded by cigarette butts, and leaving his arm on the back of the bench behind Merlin. Merlin tells himself it’s not an invitation to lean back, and so he doesn’t. “Never. Have to say, though, we’ve never lost someone like this. Drunken arguments, and people disappearing for a couple of nights, or for good, sure, par for the course, take it in our stride. But a Bane death? That’s another league.”

Merlin nods, but holds his tongue. 

“it’s understandable that everyone’s shaky. It’s human, right? Normal. I don’t want to play with things that don’t feel, I want to play with humans.”

Merlin bites his tongue harder. 

“I want to make music with people who care. People who get shaky when they think about loss. People who get carried away with loss, and love, and who can put that in their music. I’m going to remind them of that. That Bane’s stronger together, when we play the music that we feel. I’m sure that Uther would agree. He just forgets, sometimes, to think about how the music gets made, how we come together to do it. That we’re important, as parts of a whole. Otherwise, we might as well all be just programming the synthetic tunes he’s so afraid of, little compliant synthesisers beeping electronically at each other. Wouldn’t say that to him, though,” and here Arthur lets a short bark of a laugh escape. 

Merlin thinks that Arthur’s being overly optimistic about Uther’s thought processes, but wouldn’t say that, in turn, to Arthur. What does comes out, at length, is something he didn’t mean to ask, but wants to know all the same. “Are you afraid, though? Could you make music with something that wasn’t quite human? Someone?”

Arthur looks at him in the dark, and Merlin wonders what he’s seeing. There shouldn’t be any telltale gold. His ears aren’t pointy. There’s no visible tendrils of magic coming off him tonight, not of which he’s aware. Tonight, he’s just Merlin. Arthur’s looking at Merlin’s eyes, though, and his mouth, like there’s a giveaway sign, here be magic, here’s a monster that’s not yet been caught, and Merlin’s nervous.

“For myself? For me? Sure. I’ll dance with whoever, whatever’s brung me. Oh, I will dance, Merls. I’ll make music until the cows come home, with whoever, with whatever, and I’ll like it, and so will they. For Bane?” Arthur leaves that question hanging. Stares up into the stars. Merlin can feel his warmth, all along his left side. He fancies he feels the warmth from Arthur’s hand, above his shoulder. He looks up to the stars, and it’s hard not to feel them laughing at him, as he leans back, head tipped up, resting on Arthur’s arm, tracing out Orion, ever hunting. Arthur doesn’t move, not for a minute, and then he feels Arthur’s warm hand curl about his bony shoulder, just there, and then they’re looking at the stars, together. Then, because Merlin can’t ever have nice things, there’s a door opening from the hotel, and noise, and Arthur taps him on the shoulder, and it’s time to go in and make the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by:  
> Amazing Grace (by bagpipers at funerals everywhere)  
> The Magic Piper (of Love) (Edwyn Collins)  
> Dolly Dagger (Jimi Hendrix)  
> Always Forever Now (Passengers)  
> Standing On The Outside (Cold Chisel)
> 
> And bacon and egg sandwiches everywhere.


	8. The hollow men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many ways for things to fall apart. This is one of them.

There’s a week that’s bad. 

It starts lukewarm, with a day off, which isn’t really a day off. Morgana builds these in, so Gwen’s said, in case accidents happen, case in point. What Arthur’s day off looks like, from Merlin’s perspective, is the same as any day on, barring the concert, torture Merlin into a jog, rehearse with the band for one more hour than is really necessary and simply for Uther’s need to shout at people, stopping for food and drinks as necessary, relax in Uther’s absence with a bit more music, and fall asleep, often cradling the guitar, until Merlin can prise it from his grasp and stow it away. 

This day starts with the jog, because Arthur can’t not. Henry, one of the pyros who was not in any way to blame for people being immolated and to whom Merlin therefore owes a great debt, takes his time climbing out of the van, with a shiver at the cold, and a kiss on the cheek for Gwaine, who pats him on the arse as he goes. The jog goes as fine as it ever does, which is to say not great. Merlin has two left feet, and they invariably find each other, especially when he’s watching the little red shorts, and the little black shorts, because how could he not, but that gives Arthur an opportunity every time to do that smile, the one which is both simultaneously exasperated, and amused, which is quite lovely.

The rehearsal starts, as it ever does, cacophonous as everyone tunes, and twiddles, until Uther barks at them, and starts with whatever it is he wants to play. Where it goes from there is wrong. Terribly wrong. Uther’s lead guitar part for Twilight of the Gods is relatively simple, a driving one two three, one two three, rising up insistently and with a disciplined rhythm. What Uther plays bears no resemblance. His fingers fumble, and the rhythm is mush, and there’s nothing the rest of the band can do to cover it, no matter how he snaps. They play nothing but Twilight of the Gods for four hours, and it never gets any better. First, it’s Leon’s fault, the drums aren’t piercing hard enough, how can he possibly be expected to hit hard when Leon’s playing like he’s a hangover. Does he? Is that the problem? How the fuck, Leon, how the fuck does a thirty year old not know his limits? Then it’s Owain. Little fucking Owain, it’s called a rhythm guitar for a reason. You’ve got less rhythm than the family planning method, and you’re just as fucked. Merlin gets a look in, when there’s feedback, although it’s not his fault, he’s not quick enough to fix it, and Uther tells him that Gaius was wrong, that he’s no skill to him at all, fucking useless. Then the oldies, Lot and Aggro get a serve. The bass isn’t keeping up, the percussion isn’t worth carting the damn instruments down around the country, what’s the fucking point of you. And you, Arthur?"

Merlin’s his hand on the power cable. He’s not going to sit through another hour of that. He sees Arthur brace for it, the knuckles tense about the guitar neck, and then Uther just stops. 

“You’re not worth it. You’re just not. None of you are. If you can’t sort yourselves out by tomorrow, we’re all fucked. This rehearsal is fucking over.”

Uther storms out, dumping his poor abused twanging guitar on the ground, and Gwen’s going to be pretty damn unhappy with that. There’s a lot of things that Merlin wants very badly to say, but it’s not his place, or so Uther’s told him. Aggro carefully puts his sticks down. 

“I’ll go after him. He’ll be right, just a bad day. We’ll go have a drink, she’ll be right.”

Lot turns away from the whole room and makes himself very busy putting his bass guitar away very carefully, taking a good amount of time about it, making sure the placement’s just so. Leon doesn’t bother, the drumsticks go down, and he claps Merlin’s shoulder on the way out, and Owain walks out with the guitar still hanging on him, blinking back what looks like to Merlin to be tears.

Merlin can see Arthur put himself back together, the rolling of the shoulders back and down, releasing the grip on the guitar, and assuming the mantle once more, the guy who rolls with the punches, the guy who meets, who exceeds all the parental expectations. He strums a chord, and stops. Another. 

“Waiting for an invite?” He doesn’t even look at Merlin. 

Merlin takes a stab, and sets up a twelve bar blues, a bass track, and a nice and easy, something that’s not going to win any awards for creativity, but won’t upset the senior Pendragon if he returns, and will let the junior one work out his frustration for a little. Arthur takes the bait.

He takes Uther’s part from Twilight of the Gods and rips it into tiny little shreds, the better to put it back again, in the confines of the blues. He interlaces bits of Ready for War, and he inverts it, although it takes a couple of goes around, for Merlin to realise that that is in fact what he’s doing. He can’t quite tell where Arthur’s going at any given minute, because he’s taking bits of them all, all the Bane tracks, the new album and the old standards, and he’s quoting them all out of order, and it’s all Merlin can do to keep up, to provide the backing against which Arthur can exhaust himself. Aithusa doesn’t even stir from inside her case.

It's some time an infinite number of sets of 12 bars later that Merlin realises that Elyan’s playing with Uther’s guitar, propped against a wall, one heel kicked up, just relaxing into the middle register, letting Arthur complain over the top of it, and Merlin scales his bit back, just a bass line now, and a bit of percussion, no need to overegg this particular pudding, chiefly being cooked just to undetonated Arthur, because otherwise the week’s going to be unbearable, and Elyan nods at him, and continues on. This means he doesn’t miss it when Gwaine enters with a bass lien, and Merlin continues until he realises he doesn’t need to any more, and he drops the deck out entirely, and lets them go. The Bane excerpts, the motifs, are still in there, but Arthur’s letting Elyan morph them into something a little less angry, and it’s a coherent thing, if not of beauty, then at least more to do with music than how they were sounding this morning, and he thinks, he hopes, that Arthur’s going to be okay. It seems that Arthur feels that way too, because at the end of the next 12, he pulls it to a halt. The room still feels tense, expectant, and Merlin can feel his breath ragged. 

“I didn’t know you sang,” remarks Gwaine, and Merlin startles. He hadn’t he was, but also he hadn’t thought to stop himself, so that’s on him. Arthur’s looking at him, like he’s adjusted his lens for a good zoom in, and it’s a little unsettling. “What was that, anyway? Sounded familiar. Not Bane, though.”

Merlin couldn’t have answered for the life of him. Aithusa suddenly requires a great deal of attention, and he lets his attention rest on her, and only her. “Just, you know, words. Words, like ordinary people sing.”

Arthur laughs, but it sounds less annoyed, and more the usual, oh look, Merlin’s applied butter to his hand rather than his toast, the silly donkey, and that’s okay. “I’m never going to fathom the inner workings of your mind, am I? You’re something else. Say what you want, Merls, and I will, but the one thing you’re not is ordinary.

“Thanks,” says Merlin, snapping Aithusa’s case shut brusquely. “I have to call Gaius.” 

He doesn’t, not really, but to make the excuse true, he does, from the confines of the shitty bedroom they’ve drawn to share this time round, carpet of finest sticky brown, crinkling cracked off white painted walls, toilet down the hall, and beds that creak danger when you collapse dramatically upon them, as Merlin’s choosing to do now. Although it’s early yet, Gaius answers, and there’s no slur in his voice, so perhaps he’s out of whiskey, or as he likes to call it, ‘elixirs of life’. 

“Merlin! Are you alright, you silly boy?”

Merlin finds his throat constricted, and he can’t help but let a sob escape. 

“Oh, come now. It wasn’t your fault. It will be fine, it will. Even your father couldn’t have stopped that one, and he held off some pretty awful things, I can tell you that.”

Merlin pulls himself at least enough together to bat that it of comfort off. “My father would never have let her loose to start with. He’d have found another way.”

“You’ll find your way too. You just need to be a little more sensible about it, but he was much the same at your age, I recall.” 

Merlin wants to climb down the phone line, and into Gaius’ lap, like he’d done as a small one, greedy for a story, greedy for details of the father he’s only ever really known through one. His father, the idea of him, he’s chased into stone burrows, and circles for years. Myrdden ap Annwn, one of the greats, he’d been told by she below, begrudgingly after a quest gone right, for a change, he who could call down lightning from the sky, and the trout from the stream, and you, Merlin, will be greater still, if you set your mind to it, and perhaps even if you don’t. His mother had called him Myrdden Rhys, the love of her life and careless with it to the point of death and beyond, and Merlin hard pressed to reconcile the two. His father had left them, is all he’d known as a young boy, and even after a season below, with the folk his father had called kin, so he’d been told, in the other country where small dragons flew in the sky as common as large seagulls, and iron was the thing as rare as hen’s teeth, he’d not known his father any better for it, or himself for that matter. Not the way he feels he knows himself now.

“That’s not even the worst,” he breathes into the silence of the dingy room. “There’s doom, hanging in every note, sure as any witch of the mist sings. Any time, every time, they play together. I can feel it, and I can’t shake it. There’s something missing from them, more than Val, and I can’t fix it. The music’s gone and I don’t know what to do to bring it back. What can I do? What do I do now?”

The ceiling’s cracks seem to widen as he looks at them, and the mildew he can smell from the corner. 

“It’s not your music to fix. It’s not something you can fix. You need to let go, my boy. Sometimes things have to fall apart.”

Merlin swallow down the unshed tears from the back of his throat, salt and sour. “To be put back together again, right? I’ve heard that one before. Along with the one about failure being a lesson.” He’d wondered before, but now he knew, he’d been sent to fail alongside the Bane, because Gaius didn’t want to bear it himself. He could call the old man coward, give him that wound to carry, but to what good? None, and so he held his tongue. It wasn’t his band. It wasn’t his music.

“I’ll send you someone, if I can get him. He’s played with them before. It’ll buy some time. When the time comes, though, I want you to promise to look after Arthur. Yourself first, of course, for you are   
very dear to me, but if you can, save Arthur.” He can hear Gaius breathing heavy down the phone, and raspy with it, and he makes all the promises he can, so that he can hang up and let Gaius be, safe and far from the yellow murkiness of whatever that curse is, safe from the fall out of his unpolished power, his untrained dragon with too much fire and too little control. Gaius can be safe, and he can be here and do what he can. For Arthur.

When he emerges, the hotel’s bare for the moment of band members, the cleaning staff pushing rusty trolleys along the corridors, switching out towels for slightly cleaner ones, and there’s no better chance he’ll have for this. 

The car park is quiet, and the air is hushed, the sky overcast and dead. The tour bus is parked down the back for today, sandwiched between cars of middling to low value, and there’s a feeling of unease even before he looks with the sight. When he looks, though, he can see it rolling in waves, oozing out and over the cars, the tarmac, the hotel, and incidentally over Merlin also, and he wipes at his arms but the feeling won’t abate one iota. 

He knows then what to do, and casts the first conscious spell he’d ever been taught, below, a shield, rendering him impervious to influence, something vital for the court, but that he’s not called on since, for no occasion’s demanded it. When he’s done, he feels the air, untainted, and his eyes relax, when he hadn’t realised that he’d been squinting. The world feels lighter, somehow, no longer quite so hopeless, and when he looks properly with the sight, it’s clear that the waves are coming from the entire bus. There’s no simple fix this time, but he tries one anyway. He feels his feet plant themselves solidly, horse stance, and pulls the energy up from the ground, up and through him from his centre to his hands and out, a clean wave of blue, blue white flooding and washing it clean, all of it clean, as clean as a thing of iron and rubber could ever hope to be, as free from evil as the day it was made, ready and willing to be driven into battle, or at least to a stadium, to serve as a proper steed, and he holds it, for a moment, and then releases. For a moment, after the release, as he gasps for air, he sees the influence fade, sees the cleanness hold, and he’s hopeful, but it only lasts the moment. The instant he pulls back, it starts to ooze again. This is something more. Merlin shudders, just for an instant, and pulls back some more, just to hold clean for one more moment, but it’s gone. This is not a simple thing, to be dealt with in an instant. He’ll have to think it over, when he has time. 

Arthur’s quiet the rest of the day, and Merlin, for once, doesn’t know whether he should let him be, or not, so he shadows, as quiet as he can, never quite where Arthur can see him, off and on as the day wears on, in not quite a restful fashion. Morgana and Agravaine pass through, with terse arguments that keep breaking off like brittle toffee, and he doesn’t think that’s his place to investigate. Perhaps Arthur could do it, but he needs a break. 

Gwen could, but she’s fully occupied when he finds her in a store room flanked by guitars, and at least he can help with that one, doesn’t even bother asking, just picks up his own tiny screwdriver and polishing cloth, clean from Aithusa, and pitches in, at her side. All the members of Bane are hard on their instruments, it’s the nature of their music. Uther’s the worst, and there are six lovely Fenders battered to bits, which Gwen’s partially dismantled and is putting back together. Arthur’s Gibson needs a good clean, and a bit of a tighten, but there’s nary a scratch on her by comparison, not a ding. Merlin doesn’t have a good excuse to polish it, but he does it anyway, because he can, and the tensioning too. It’s good cover for the protection he’s laying down with every sweep, every ratchet, for if he can’t protect the man, he can protect his weapon, make sure it’s in as tip top shape as possible, gentle blue streaks flowing about him, if anyone cared to look in the right way, a bit of shielding, if it works, at least he can give him this, and so he does. Gwen’s looking right amused at him, when he finishes, and she stacks the Gibson with the last of the reassembled Fenders in the rack, ready for transport. It’s too late to protect Uther. 

The next morning, Elaine, one of the riggers, climbs out of Gwaine’s van when they pick him up for the jog, and thanks him for a bit of fun, giving a good stretch, as she walks the stairs, Gwaine watching her go with appreciation. The jog is silent, and Merlin badly wants to sprint, to make Arthur, and Gwaine of course, chase him, but he doesn’t. Arthur’ll need the energy later. He eats the equivalent of a third of his bodyweight in toast. Arthur mocks him, and Merlin calls him big boned, and Arthur spills orange juice into Merlin’s toast, which he continues to eat anyway. All par for the course.   
At the sound check, Morgana’s pacing, and he can’t cut corners. He has to walk the long way, and he’s glad he gorged at breakfast. At least at the top, he can get a good look, and it seems that the curse, if there is one, isn’t just on the bus, it’s oozing from the stage as well, yellow green gelatinous, even though there’s only Gwen fiddling with the guitars, and Morgana barking orders and crew members jumping to it. A general one then.

That concert isn’t as terrible as Merlin was half expecting, although Uther fumbles his way through his solos, cutting them shorter than ever before, even in the studio, at least no one dies. There’s no encores. 

The next one, though, that’s a train wreck. Uther swears, into a live mike, he walks into microphone stands, he plays the wrong melodies and he plays them out of time, he asks people to sing choruses and no one does, the stadium’s all silent at the wrong instant, and he tells them all to fuck off. He smashes a guitar. He smashes a second one. People walk out. 

He wakes up, wishing he hadn’t, to his phone buzzing. There’s a text from Gaius, sent at midnight the night before, telling him to meet a Lance from the London 10am train, bring Morgana, but not Arthur, and look for a man who looks like this, for he’ll play guitars for Bane like an angel, and you’ll have him for a week. There’s a head shot of a man that he knows very well, has gone through fire and back with, a man in a black suit, with tanned skin, and brown eyes, perfect teeth, hair that always, always, looks like a professional’s spent hours getting it just so, but about which Lance cares not a thing. The last time Merlin saw him, he was bleeding through his armour, but still with a smile. Lance DuLac, who’d served in her court for half a season for reasons Merlin hadn’t known, nor cared to ask, not in a court like that. He’d played a lute like a sidhe plays on human emotion, but with no magic, none other than any handsome man ordinarily possesses. He’d served with honour, and a heart of gold, more than any other in the court below, true to his own compass, for which her below had both loved and hated, and finally released him. Here he’d be, and with him, perhaps between the two of them, the Bane could be saved, and if not Bane, at least Arthur. 

He’s too excited to sleep any longer. He shakes Arthur up, and ignores the half awake smile, the sleep shirt slipping down at his neck, doesn’t even bother pretending at modesty when he changes, speed’s more important this morning and there’s no stolen glances Arthur’s way this morning either. He outruns the little black shorts, and the little red ones, and sweats all over Morgana, cornering her in the breakfast nook, barely remembering to apologise to Gwen that he won’t be able to help with this morning’s reconstruction efforts, that he’ll be back later to tune Arthur’s. He doesn’t even bother with investigating the stale cardboard breakfast offerings, and he’s too excited to explain properly. He holds up his phone instead, with Lance’s smiling face.

“We’ve got him coming in on the 10am train, with us for a week. Come with me and pick him up, and I swear, our luck’s going to change. He’s the best, it’s going to be brilliant.”

He’s aware that he sounds like a gushing idiot, but he doesn’t really care. He’s remembering the times Lance’s taken the knives that should have been at the throats of the weaker. The times he’s protected the changelings like Freya, stumbling in their duties and at peril of their lives. That last time, when he’d taken the blow perilous at Samhain, so the Wild Hunt could ride, and accepted his departure from the lands below, never able to return again. He’d understand, about the dragon, and help Merlin to manage it. He’d understand about the curse, and help in its lifting. And of course, Bane would have its extra guitar, and fix the hole in the bucket through which the music was trickling out, and all would be well. There’s no way that anyone should be anything but delighted at the prospect.  
Yet looking at his face, Gwen’s gone pale, and Morgana’s holding her hand like she’s slipping underwater, even as Gwen straightens her back and assumes the posture of a queen. Very much as if she’s been punched in the gut, and is determined to breathe. Morgana’s looking at Merlin like he’s holding a slug, and he looks, to be sure, but it’s definitely Lance’s face looking out of the screen.

Gwen draws herself to her feet, and breaks Morgana’s grip. “Excuse me.” She turns and sweeps from the room, giving it the only dignity it’s probably ever seen in its sad miserable little breakfast nook existence.

“What? Morgana, what?”

She shakes her head, the black curls concealing her face. “If it’s the 10am, you need to go shower right now, and we best be away. Go now.” She uses the stage manager voice, and he knows there’s no point in asking further. 

Arthur, for a mercy, isn’t to be found in the shower room, and Merlin makes quick work of it, using the slimy little scrap of soap the hotel’s left, and trying not to think about germs. Clothes are donned, stairs are run down, the car’s entered, and they leave, but Morgana’s not speaking still by the time they reach the train station, not while Merlin’s hugging the only true friend he’s ever had, the only one who’s ever known and accepted all the bits of him, even the bad ones, hugging him as tight as any bear, for he’d not thought to find him in this life, in this world, and here he is, and he tells Lance he’s better than Batman, better than Taliesin, and Lance tells him to hush now, and he turns to Morgana with a hand extended, but she’s already back at the car.

Merlin fills the silence of the carpark with talk about the stadium, and the set list, all the safe-ish, neutral-ish topics, but Morgana doesn’t bite. She doesn’t speak until they pull into the carpark, and she brakes with excessive zeal.

“Break his trust again, and I’ll gut you like a fish. Come after Gwen without an invitation, and I’ll introduce you to a world of pain, and I know you know what that feels like. There’ll be no place for you in this world or any other if you do what you did again. I hope I make myself clear.” It’s the best version of that kind of a speech that Merlin’s ever been present for, and although he has no clue what’s going on, he’s very impressed, and scared, and has follow up questions, although this won’t be the time. 

Lance holds his hands up. “Clear as the crystal in the caves of Gaeaf. I’m here because Gaius said I would be needed, and I promise you that I will do nothing unasked for. I will not interfere.”

Merlin wants to understand, but it’s not coming. In the front seat, Lance is staring down Morgana, all sincerity, in the same blind way he would try on her below, and it’s making Merlin just as uneasy as it had done in that situation. There’s something more here, which he can’t see. The back seat’s locked against unruly children, and he fumbles at it until Morgana releases him. Lance follows from the front, in a more measured pace. The same way he did, that last day, going to his doom. There’s something here Merlin can feel building, and he can’t tell what.

Until he turns, and sees Arthur on the steps. He can half see a sword in his hands, and a torc about his throat, like her below, advancing on Lance, and Merlin in between to stop it, until Lance tells him to move, that this isn’t Merlin’s to fix, it’s Lance’s. 

Lance is wrong. This isn’t Bane, this is Arthur, and that’s Merlin’s.

“Arthur and I are away to the shops, back in an hour. Out of soap. We’ll be back in an hour. Lance’ll need taking through the set list, Morgana.”

Nobody moves, and Merlin knows that Lance is setting his feet. He can see Arthur setting his. 

“Arthur. I need you to come with me. Gaius asked for Lance, and Uther needs him. Come with me now.” He’s sore tempted, so sorely tempted to put a compulsion into all of them. He’s not had to do it since his time below, and he can feel that short cut beckoning, as easy as pie. He’d have Arthur dancing like a puppet, and never knowing it, Morgana smiling and happy, and Lance compliant, and at least for that moment, things would work, and the temptation of it is so strong, that he can feel the spell on his tongue aching to be free. Lance would know, though, he’d know the feeling well enough. Morgana would be angry, red with it. And Arthur? He’d never forgive it, not really. There’s a line there and he’d be well over it. 

“Arthur? C’mon, let’s be having you. Time and tide waits for no man?” He gives Arthur his best smile, the one which promises all the secrets, and hides all the fears, the one that imagines that Arthur’s happy, and hopes to make him so, and waits. 

Arthur finally speaks, not taking his eyes from Lance, the same wariness in them as when he’s watching Uther. “You’re right. We need toothpaste too. If I don’t come, you’ll get the wrong one that tastes like ham, I know what you’re like. Lance, welcome back aboard. Morgana, the Daily Mail called. Trust you’ll take care of it.” 

There’s a whole silent conversation going on around him, one that he’s not meant to be part of, and all Merlin can do is smile. Smile, and wait. 

Morgana moves first, striding the tarmac like it’s beneath her notice, and Lance behind her. It’s only then that Arthur stirs, and Merlin can see the violence being restrained under his skin. He marches across the carpark towards the gates like he’s marching to battle, and Merlin has to quick step to catch up. 

“Don’t say a word, Merlin. Not one.”

Merlin doesn’t. There’s no point. 

The suburb of Exeter that they’re in is more than usually dank, and littered with crisp packets, like someone’s been stocking up, and changed their mind unexpectedly about taking the rubbish to the tip, and Arthur keeps walking like he’s going to stab the next person who looks at him wrong. It’s not going to be Merlin, if he can help it, but he’d really prefer that the morning be stabbing free in general. He doesn’t do well in police stations, and he’d bet that Arthur’s not going to be happy to find himself in one in any case. That is, if Arthur has a knife, and in point of fact, stabs someone. Merlin lets Arthur set a fast pace, just in case, crumpling the crisp packets under foot. He could really do with some breakfast, although it could be called lunch by now, given the sun’s relative position in the sky and the hollowness in Merlin’s stomach. There’s a Nandos as they walk past, and the fried chicken casts a spell of its own over Merlin, to which Arthur is impervious, walking on only faster. Because Merlin can’t have nice things. 

In the Tesco’s, they pick up a tail, as well as the toothpaste and soap, this time Arthur branching out into the exciting world of figs and cinnamon, which is surely going to kill Merlin with confused and misplaced hunger, a fate to which he is resigned. Arthur pauses in front of the prophylactics, the better to take a sidelong glance at the fellow who’s following them, which makes Merlin quite flustered, until he understands that Arthur’s not stocking up, he’s making like a secret agent with the covertness, and the supplies he’s placing in the basket are by way of cover, and nothing to be thought of in the same breath as figs, and cinnamon, and heat, and hunger. 

The tail’s a dark haired man, and a little shorter than Arthur himself, about Merlin’s age, with a scuttling gait, creeping behind artfully stacked rolls of toilet paper and pop cans, and ducking at the end of the aisles like that’s going to stop anyone from seeing him. The tail does have one positive effect: Arthur stops looking like he’s going to stab anyone who looks at him wrong, and starts specifically looking for this one person to stab. Or at least interrogate. Merlin makes a token effort to pay half of the groceries, and Arthur looks offended, so he doesn’t push it. He’s proper starving now, what with the early morning run and then the adrenalin, and the casting, and confusion, and when they pass the Nandos, he succeeds in pulling Arthur in, who pretends to be wholly uninterested, and then orders an enormous burger and chips, with all the extras, for which Merlin’ll give him stick about later, and assumes a regal position in the booth, and waves Merlin to the counter to wait for them both, like he’s some king or something, and Merlin doesn’t bother looking too hard at why he’s happy to do it. He’s happy, and there’s going to be fried chicken, and that’s enough for right now. 

Just in case, while he’s waiting and there’s naught better to do, he has a proper look at the room. Arthur’s glowing in gold, nicely free of the slimy influence, and he could spend all day, just bathing in that, but the chicken’s going to come before he’s ready if he does that, and so he tells his magic to pull its head in, and moves on. There’s a couple of people with tell tales in their auras, charms for good luck, charms for health, some low level curses, which he does a little work on, should feel better before they finish their double chilli with the works whatever it is they’re eating, and then there’s this one guy. He’s by the door, and he’s midnight black, Merlin can’t read a thing on him at all. It’s a skill Merlin’s never bothered to learn, in point of fact, she below told him not to bother, that he burns too bright, he’d burn right through any concealment, and better to terrify than to hide. Something is being concealed by this man, and for reasons unknown. He’s about to wonder if it’s worth the effort to try to burst through it, which hasn’t gone well for either hider or seeker in the past, and they’re in a fast food restaurant full of mundanes, which isn’t the best place to battle, when his number is called, and when he turns back, with his tray full of hot deliciousness, the tail’s sitting across from Arthur in the booth. 

Dropping the tray and casting would be a commotion that wouldn’t be missed by anyone, and Merlin doesn’t like that option. For a start, he’s hungry. For a second, he’s not ready to explain to Arthur anything, not until he understands a bit more about what that scene was with Lance. For a third, the press would have a field day. Two odd happenings in the vicinity of Bane members? Gold. Let’s not, thinks Merlin, and sits down next to Arthur, opposite the tail, who doesn’t seem to be doing anything dangerous. Yet. Merlin’s ready for him.

“Always nice to meet a fan,” Arthur’s saying, with that particular fixed smile he has, the one modeled on HRH. “Glad you enjoyed the show last night.”

“I’m not exactly a fan.” The tail winces, slightly, under Merlin’s fixed stare. “My name’s Mordred. I’m your son.”

Arthur and Merlin both stare blankly at him. “At least, that’s what my mam told me.” Mordred offers up meekly.

“Your mam,” says Merlin, “told you that this man was your da. How old are you, and how thick are you? Look at yourself. I mean, come on. Do you think Arthur was in the baby making business when he was five? Bugger off. Just bugger off with that.”

Mordred flushes a deep red. “She’s very insistent when she wants to be. She’s also not always altogether there. She takes these pills, you see. The last person she said was my father’d been dead for years. Guess I’ve watched Mama Mia one too many times. Shouldn’t have bothered you. ‘m sorry.”

“It’s all good,” says Arthur generously. “What’s your name again? Mordred, right. Why don’t you come up to the hotel and meet the band, there’s a couple of hours before we need to be making tracks for tonight. Best I can do after you’ve been put through it like that. Ask for Morgana.”

Mordred stammers out a thanks, and leaves, but not until after Arthur’s pressed a packet of chips on him. Merlin makes an arm and grabs the remaining ones, and starts eating them quickly, before Arthur gets any ideas. Merlin’s not moving, because from here, he can see the door. Arthur can move away from the chips if he wants to. Arthur doesn’t move either. 

“Was weird, right?” says Merlin in between chips. “I mean, he’d be what, twenty one at most? You’re what?”

“Twenty eight,” volunteers Arthur, dismembering a chicken leg. “Older and wiser than you, by four years, for a start.”

Merlin thinks about the season spent below, and whether he’s got a good way to explain non linear time dynamics, and eats some more chips. 

“He didn’t even look like you.”

Arthur shakes his head. “People like stories. Perhaps it was Lot. Or even Aggro.” He eats the chicken absently, licking his fingers in between bites. “Put the cat amongst the pigeons and let them fight it out.”

Merlin takes a bite of chicken, crispy skin shattering under his teeth, and grease and sauce escaping down his chin, utterly happy, for a change, offering only a general polite murmuring noise in agreement, because he’s busy. Wipes with the back of his hand. Licks the back of his hand. Takes another chip and eats that too, and then another piece of chicken, leaving only one large chunk. Looks up at Arthur, and calculates. Arthur seems distracted, yet hungryish still, and is looking at Merlin’s chin, which prompts Merlin to try to clean it with his tongue, carefully, yet unsuccessfully. He can probably steal it, if Arthur’s off in some other place thinking about other things, and so he makes a long arm, under Arthur’s gaze, and nabs it. There’s no way he can be sneaky about eating it, and so he does it as quickly as possible, squirrel cheeked, and Arthur swallows, still watching Merlin’s mouth.

“You’ve got a –“ Arthur grabs Merlin’s chin, and dabs at it with a napkin, not meeting Merlin’s curious eyes. It goes on for longer than Merlin think is entirely necessary, and he’s a little flustered, when it finishes. Turns away, and takes his drink, focussing his attention on shaking out his collapsible straw from its container, and fitting it just so, in between the ice, and on sucking up the coolness to counter the heat from the chilli. Or whatever.

“That was nicely done, by the way,” he offers by way of a change in topic. “Mordred, I mean. Nicer than I’d have been. Was going to be.”

Arthur looks out the door, down the dingy street. “Not the first time it’s happened. I mean, that’s the first time someone’s claimed to be mine. It’s usually ‘I’m your brother’ or ‘I’m your sister’. I’ve had practice. And I never knew my mother, so.”

Merlin thinks about the court below. There was no end of babies being presented by tearful mothers, but the end to those stories weren’t usually happy ones, the blood of the innocents being what it was, especially the high born ones. Byblows were hidden, and concealed, until they’d grown, and could challenge for their rights. As he’d done.

“No bouncing baby boys landing at your doorstep, then?” he asks, looking out the front door as casually as Arthur appeared to be doing. He feels like he’s stepping into a minefield without a map. Treads as carefully as he can. “No young ladies telling their babbies about their one fine night with the young blond blade from Bane, the one who got away. The one that’ll see them right for money, if only they can prove it?”

Arthur kicks him sideways with one foot. “Tell me more about the inside of your head, Merlin. The one which is populated with fair maidens throwing themselves at my feet. Do you see any here, right now? It’s a fair indication, not that it’s any of your business, Merlin. None at all. “

“Oh, come on. You can’t be telling me that there’s been none. I mean, look at you. Have you seen you?” He takes a long suck on his straw, so that he doesn’t have to look at Arthur, because he can feel the flush starting down the base of his neck. 

“We’re in a Nandos, Merlin. We’re not having this conversation.”

“It’s raining now, Arthur. ‘m not walking back yet. Go on, tell me how the other half live.”

Arthur takes the lid off his drink and takes a long swallow down. “God. You’re unstoppable, aren’t you. There’s honestly not much to tell, you berk. Happy now? When I was twenty, I thought I was in love. She was beautiful, she thought I was the bees knees, turned out she wanted me to stop playing, and marry her and make her happy with dad’s money, and that turned out to not be what I wanted at all. Then she tried to sue me for breach of promise, and drown me with lawyers’ bills. That was a whole barrel of fun. I was twenty. I can’t imagine not playing music. I’d go mad, I think.” He takes another swallow, while Merlin digests that. He lets his foot rest up against Arthur’s because that’s awful, and feet are allowed. Not very comforting, but then again, not very threatening either.

“Then, I was twenty five, and so much more grown up. I knew it all when I was twenty five. There were two people, and they were the best people I knew. That I know. My best mate, and my best girl, and I trusted them absolutely. He had this light inside him. Made me feel better just being around. We’d play, and the music would just flow, and everything else would just go away. You know. He’d look at me, after, and it was like we’d just, you know. Better than. And she was, you know, so together. A real grown up, who expected that I’d be responsible, and so I was. She made me want to be a better person. Still does. I was just, like, so high, just being around them. When I wasn’t with her, I was with him, and when I wasn’t with him, I was with her, and I was just so fucking happy.”

Arthur balls up a napkin, and throws it into the empty cup. “Never did anything, I mean, physical. I was triangulating, doing this crazy thinking about how I could have them both. Make it work. Keep everyone happy. Keep the band intact. And then, I found out. All that time, when I’d been thinking we were this thing, they’d been together. Not even maliciously. Not to hurt me. They were in love, and not with me. Didn’t even think of me in that way.”

Merlin’s stomach is acid. It’s eating him from inside out. He feels a complete idiot. As transparent as glass. 

“After that, I was done. I don’t do that anymore. He’d always wanted to travel, see the world, and Morgana made that happen. Guess he’s seen it now, whatever he wanted always seemed to somehow fall into place. Gwen’s with Morgana now, and fair play to them if they can make that triangle work. So no, Merlin, I don’t have any good stories for the Daily Mail to chase down. I’m a blank slate. I’m boring. All I want is to make music. That’s all I want.”

Merlin licks the salt from his lips, the sweet from the straw, watching Arthur from the side, watching him do it. Lance’d seen the world, all right. Paid his dues, paid for his mistakes and then some. Sometimes, things need to come apart so that they can fit together again. He shakes his straw out, and wipes it down with a napkin, and folds it back into his jacket pocket. “Right. Let’s go do that then.”

That night, Bane are unbeatable. It doesn’t matter that Uther’s flat, or that he fucks his solos dry and painful. When Arthur and Lance play against each other, it’s not so much a duel of riffs, competing for time in the way that Val would. Lance builds on what Arthur starts, and leaves space for him to drop in, like two surfers on the same wave, and the energy’s infectious. Merlin watches it happen silently from the soundpit, feels the crowd respond, and wants to hate Lance for it, but he can’t. He lets the charge bleed into the ground, and the groundskeeper’s going to have to mow a couple more times come full summer, is all the damage he allows. Aithusa stays in her shell. 

On the bus, the way back to the hotel, Bane is exuberant and noisy, everyone except Merlin. Gwen’s standing in her chair, and leading a breakdown of how the boys played, Morgana’s head down over the phone, plotting out the next day’s travel, Uther is happily nattering with Lot, and Aggro across the way about the glory days, and how he’ll lead the band to triumph once more, now he has the guitars in line, Leon’s down the back drumming the seats up with the crew, and Arthur and Lance? They had some complicated handshake thing that they started when they got on the bus, and there’s a bubble of quiet around them, letting them talk. Merlin knows, because he put it there for them. Best mate, and best something else. He knows the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by Merlin's aching heart  
> Mantra (Dave Grohl, Josh Homme, Trent Reznor)  
> Evil (Nadine Shah)  
> To my enemies (Saint Motel)  
> Since I left you (The Avalanches)  
> Born under a bad sign (Albert King)  
> Midnight Rider (Allman Brothers Band)


	9. Knights, assemble

They play Taunton, one night only, Bournemouth, one night only, Poole, one night only, a string of one night stands for a good couple of weeks that Merlin can’t settle into. There’s no music in the hotel afterwards, there’s barely enough time for a jog in the morning before it’s sound check time for him, and Morgana to the set up. Aithusa’s itchy again, and Merlin can’t help her. There’s no time to take a side trip. On the way back to the hotel, one of the one night onlies, Owain’s not on the bus, nor Gwaine, and after, Gwaine explains unapologetically that Owain’s away to London, had enough, he said to say ‘no hard feelings’. 

Merlin can’t blame him, not really, any London band would be happy to have him, he’s a blessing, a solid pair of hands, and there’s not a great incentive to stay. There’s no joy in facing Uther every day knowing he’s never going to find you good enough. What little praise he gives, what little joy he offers, is all directed at the audience. What a great crowd they are, hello Taunton, hello Exeter, hello Penzance, hello hello hello. What little’s left is for Arthur and Lancelot, now that they’ve found their measure again, up against each other every night, brothers in arms once more. There’s not a lot left from Uther for anyone else. 

Uther doesn’t let Elyan sit in until Dorchester, and that’s only after Morgana tells him that he must, and Gaius calls him directly to say he can’t find anyone else, for the moment. Even then, Elyan’s shunted up the back, hardly visible, next Aggro and the percussion. One of them, one of the Bane, but not really, it’s clear, in Uther’s eyes. 

“It’s not that he’s racist,” says Gwen one morning, bravely, with not even an edge of bitterness. “He’s not. He’s given me a job all this time, hasn’t he? He’s letting Elyan play, isn’t he? It’s just not what he’s used to. Baby steps.” 

Arthur cuts his toast into small chunks and leaves them on the plate. The next morning, and every morning after, Elyan’s there with them on the jog, alongside Gwaine, and Lance, and Merlin tumbling after. The morning after that, Leon, for all that he’s got ten years on the rest of them, is in the pack, shaking the footpaths in the same way he’s shaken the stage, and Arthur up the head of it all. The sound’s better, after that. More cohesive. More alive. More everything. Aithusa doesn’t fly, but the groundskeepers of the south of England will be busy this summer, and for after, with the energy Merlin’s bleeding down. 

By the time they’ve reached Southhampton, Gwaine’s shared his favours with twelve of the Bane, band and crew, and it’s as if they’re in the court below, none jealous, all continuing on good terms, as if they’ve exchanged naught more than a handshake. Gwaine’s still not on stage, though, except when it pleases him, he drops in and out depending on the night, and the only person it bothers seems to be Lot, who fumbles the bass line and plays out of time, which in turn bothers everyone else. Gwaine won’t budge though, not to Lot, and Lot won’t budge, until he does, spectacularly one night, and there’s a car crash on stage as a result, and he walks out. Merlin subs in a bassline, a simple one, but it’s not the same, and he’s not happy with it. Neither’s the rest of the Bane. Neither’s Morgana.  
“We need a back up, I’m not having Gwaine leave again, although I’d take it as a kindness if you’d stop needling your dad so much,” announces Morgana at breakfast. “Also, you all smell. Who knows a good bass?”

Everyone, it transpires, who’s half decent and in the business of playing tours already, is already playing a tour. The money won’t be enough to get them to break. Either that or no one’s willing to stake their contacts out as a sacrificial goat for Uther and or Lot. The ad goes up on a trade site before lunch. Because this is the Bane, it’s full of grandiloquent language, that they’re seeking the purest in heart, most resolute in spirit, most worthy of attaining the holy grail of music alongside the Bane. Merlin thinks it’s ridiculous, but it’s making Morgana happy, so he stays quiet. They need a bass player. Aggro tells them that it won’t work, that they don’t have the money to spare to be hiring out new band members, that surely Gwaine could be moved on, that Merlin could cover it. Or perhaps that it’s time to wrap the Bane up. Uther tells him to be quiet, that his job is to manage the money and find it, and if he wants Agravaine’s opinion, he’ll give it to him. Only he doesn’t put it quite so nicely. 

Merlin wonders if he could take a break. Just a bit. Just a little one. Just to play music that doesn’t punch the listener in the face and demand it submit. Just to remember what it feels like not to be more attuned to someone else’s mood than your own. It’s not unbearable, not yet. He knows his limits. He’s hung on the oak tree at Rhiannon’s behest for much longer, born the holly blows and tasted the ivy, he knows what he can bear and this isn’t even close. It hurts, a bit, all the same, to watch Arthur with jaw set, and shoulders firmly placed, watch Lance, watch Gwen, watch Morgana, every day, like it doesn’t matter, and know he can’t fix this for, it’s not in his power, and it’s not meant to be, no matter how he clowns, and smiles, no matter how much he polishes Arthur’s guitar, how many bacon butties he brings. Arthur has to make the next move. He texts Gaius, just in case.

There’s a week of bad concerts, as they move east, in smaller venues. Bass players migrate like fish up a river, and through the Bane’s net. Three are fine salmon, and the rest are thrown back. A tall man, Percival, bigger and broader in the shoulders than the bass he carries, which he introduces as Dinadan, maker of an almighty din, and indeed, he delivers certain tones, solid as wood. When you advertise in mellifluous language, you do tend to attract those who aren’t looking for the ordinary, and this is true of Percival, who claims he seeks to put his might to good use. An old man, Boris, who doesn’t have the same flair, and doesn’t introduce his guitar, but knows the Bane repertoire inside out, knows music, and doesn’t hesitate when he’s asked to sit in, and makes it through unscathed that night, when Lot’s stormed off to a pub. A young man, Galahad, five foot nothing in his shoes, fair of cheek and cherubic in nature, more innocent of meaning than Merlin before he went below, but who holds the bass like a sword certain of victory, and plays with clean purity, in Merlin’s opinion too good for the Bane, but he’s looking for work, and will take it, he says when asked. They’re told together, and together they agree a roster, for the nights that are needed, and Morgana’s crinkled forehead gains smoothness again.

The Bane is good once more, at least on the nights that they play, and Merlin’s back to being a glorified button pusher. There’s only so long he can watch them, he thinks. He doesn’t want them to need him, he’s not that petty, but he doesn’t want to be here if he’s not needed anymore. Not even for Arthur. There’s more to Merlin than this, surely. 

It’s one of those nights, the good bad ones, that Gaius texts back, and it’s the best news possible. There’s a gig for M.R.s., a good one, usual money, text if you can’t make it, part of the Great Escape, Brighton. The Big Warehouse 1am slot, 1 May. It’s Beltane. 

He pulls up his timetable. It fits. The Bane will be in town, performing for a second night. There’s even a rest day afterwards. It’s meant to be. He’s finally fine, properly awake, like he’s stepped out of Rhiannon’s ice bath, translucent skin shows the veins better, don’t you want to be beautiful like me, Merlin? Like he’s climbed from the rowan tree in which he’s been bound, just a game, Merlin, I would never leave you in there for good. He’s going to be free, he can taste it like the air after rain. For one night at least, he’ll be free. Aithusa’ll love it.

After that, he doesn’t mind quite so much about anything. There’s a month of good weather in it, a month of sitting separate, the lone kid in the café, watching Bane rehearsals, watching even Uther laugh at Bors’ rendition of Peter Gunn played to an ironic ska beat, watching Arthur fumble his way to an equilibrium with Lance as they plot melodies and contras, watching Gwen make a point of attending on Morgana, bringing her the favoured pastries, and the good coffee, with her free time, given that guitars played well need less tending, watching Agravaine scowl at everyone as sour as any lemon. A month of covert flights for Aithusa, Morgana watching her swoop on the updrafts well offshore, visible only to those who know, and even then only with a good pair of binoculars, like he’s bought her in town. He doesn’t tell Lance about Aithusa, or Morgana. He’s happy enough without that information, and Lance is too good at asking the right questions that Merlin doesn’t want to answer. He teaches Morgana, too, out on the clifftops, at the edge of her plaid picnic blanket, after they’ve eaten their sandwiches. How to shield, and spot an influence. She lightens, after that, in mood. She watches more, as they travel, he can see her doing it. He shows her how to cast a purification spell, in a random dingy hotel storeroom, showing her on Arthur’s Gibson, and inviting her to try on one of Uther’s Fenders, which was a mistake, and exhausting for him to fix, because it’s too hard to think of how to explain it to Gwen, and it’s never quite the same. At her request, how to understand the speech of the birds, and she looks as obscurely disappointed with the mundanity of it, my nest, my sky, my mate. He shuns the hard questions that he’d not wanted put to him, and she relaxes for it, they don’t talk about Gwen, or Lance, or the future. He doesn’t want her to have to pretend to be okay with him, and so she is. They let April fade. 

Arthur does not want April to fade. Arthur appears to be having an excellent time, if you don’t watch the tension in his shoulders and neck. He takes the Bane for drinks, for karaoke, after concerts. They don’t play in the hotels anymore, no need for that release, and Arthur’s straight to sleep of a night in their shared bedroom, no more late night conversations pontificating on the purpose of music, and what Arthur should do with his life, no need for that anymore apparently. This is male bonding, at its finest, shots all around, good old lads together. Merlin wonders if this is something Uther taught him at a young impressionable age, that shared embarrassment through drunkenness can bind a man to you, bind a band together, for Arthur seems well practiced, and Uther very tolerant of their dusty heads the next day. There are complex manly handshakes. There are in jokes, and banter, cheeky runs to Nandos, and they jog in a pack, now. Merlin never seems to be quite at the right pace, always too fast, or too slow, keep up Merlin, Arthur will toss over his shoulder for the latter, and likening Merlin to a giraffe, for the former. 

Arthur has shirts made up for them, after a particular night where Leon quips that he feels like an army wanna be, that they should have their own song, and Gwaine laughs as he tells them that Leon’s thinking too small, the day he enlists’ll be the day the Queen knights Uther for services to music, shirts that proudly declare them to be knights in training. The shirts are all, somehow, the right size, except for the one Arthur throws in Merlin’s face, as if an afterthought. 

That one, as if by evil magic, is three times bigger than he needs, hanging off his shoulders and draping down to his knees, would dwarf even Percival, he expects. He mentions it to Morgana at the Brighton sound check, he should have known better to give it to her for a laugh. She returns it to him, or at least its remains, after a little customisation. There’s no sleeves, for a start, and a good foot missing from the stomach area. He thinks twice about putting it on, the next morning before the jog, the first one in Brighton, but he’s always the odd man out anyway, and for the sake of sameness, he’ll wear it, at least once. To be fair, it does still cover his shoulders, once he puts it on, and the chest, generally, but that’s it. The word KNIGHT is the only one left, blazing above his bare stomach. From the small bathroom mirror, he can see that half his scars and some of his ink is showing, when neither really should be. There’ll be questions, if anyone looks. He’ll just have to hope that they don’t, for there’s no time left, he’s already late. 

When he reaches the hotel steps, and sees the gathering, he’s less sure of himself. There’s not only the squad, but also Morgana, with her phone held up, and an actual press photographer, taking photos of the Bane boys in formation. He thinks about turning about, and claiming to have slept through, but Morgana sees him before he can do it, covering her mouth briefly, her eyes full of mischief. 

“Merlin, just in time,” she calls. “Smile for the camera with the rest of them.” 

He tugs at the bottom of the remains of the shirt, but it’s no good, it doesn’t miraculously stretch the way he’d really very much like it to, and by the time the others, Arthur, turn about, he’s determined that the next best thing is to brazen it out. He’s worn less, in front of more, just not this particular more. Flexes hi arms with all his might, crunches his bare stomach firm, and gives his biggest, most harmless smile, look at silly old Merlin the sound guy, what a card, and looks up to see if it’s worked. There’s cheering and wolfwhistling, mostly from Gwaine, and Lance is giving him the same encouraging smile that he’d give when her below set Merlin an impossible task, bring me a feather from the furthest ends of the earth, count me the fish in the ocean, it’ll be okay, Merlin, just push through, breathe and he takes it as meant, takes the breath, it’ll be fine. The photographer’s having a grand old time, snapping now from all angles, the quad, him, him and the squad, and Arthur, now unfrozen and in motion, him and Arthur striding over with a face like thunder, the one that looks like he’s ready to throttle Merlin, would be throttling Merlin, were it not for the presence of the photographer. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he starts, with his most cheeky grin, all teeth and dimples and dancing eyes. “Must’ve slept through the ruckus you made this morning.”

“If I’d known you were going to clown it up like this, I’d have barred the door. You’re no knight,” says Arthur, like he’s wishing for a sword to run Merlin through, overenunciating every last syllable, just to rub it in.

Merlin shrugs, and the singlet slips off a shoulder. “Are we running, or are we talking?”

Arthur’s eyes flash. “You’re not running like that.”

Merlin shrugs again. When in doubt, make it worse. Pulls the singlet off with one fluid motion, without thinking too much more about it. 

“Better, sire?” Then he throws it in Arthur’s face, and takes off, leaving them all in his wake, photographer snapping away. 

He lets the wind bruise him, cold with it against his chest, kicking up his heels and stretching out his stride, he’s been the hare chased by the hounds, the salmon evading the otters, the sparrow under the falcon’s wing, the grain nestled into the ground against the hens, he knows this game. If Arthur wants his hide, he’ll have to work for it. And if he doesn’t, if he takes the squad another way, then that’s fine too. He has the gig. Arthur’s closer to fine, and doesn’t need him. He can leave and not hang his head for it, he’s done good work here.

He takes the road down to the docks, past a chippy, past an ASDA, thronged with shoppers already before work, past the police station, past them all before he hears the echo of feet. His name, his hidden one, is on the posters, every second telegraph pole, and his life, no matter what happens now, from the tip of his black haired head in the breeze to his feet scarcely touching the ground, every scar on his body which earnt him his knowledge, his life is his. If he’s not a knight, if he’s not part of the fabric of the Bane anymore, at least he’s certain of that.

He pulls to a halt at the edge of the wharf, by the warehouses, for there’s nowhere left to run and it’s rude to fly in front of those that can’t. He’s not out of breath, not hardly, but running back now and past them would also be rude. He waits, and wipes his face down as best he can with his hands, wiping them down on his shorts, and waits. 

Arthur, as expected, is first out of the pack, and pulls up, a metre, two, away. Close enough that he can half feel Arthur’s chest heave, as he catches his breath. He’s pushed harder than the others, as usual, but he’s uncharacteristically silent, other than the heavy breathing. He’s not meeting Merlin’s eyes either, tracing out, instead, all of his skin that’s on display, the scars, the bruising, the ink, and Merlin half wishes, half doesn’t, he wouldn’t. He can feel Arthur’s gaze like an appraising touch, like her below, liquid and cold, and he wills himself not to shiver. It doesn’t mean anything. His eyes meander their way up Merlin’s neck, leaving him flushed with heat in a way that the run hadn’t, snagging a moment on his lips, and finally meet Merlin’s own. There’s no excuse for the way in which Merlin’s breathing now, not really, as hard as Arthur’s own, but he can’t help it. Arthur’s mouth is open, half smiling, like he’s going to say something, and Merlin hopes he doesn’t. He could crowd Arthur up against that warehouse wall there, the one with the Brighton poster, the one with his name. He could trap him in a cage of sweaty arms, and scarred skin, and tip his jaw up, taste his neck, just a bit, make him breathe harder. He knows it.

Then, because Arthur doesn’t run that much faster than the rest of the pack, no matter how hard he’s pushing himself, that’s when the rest of the knights in training arrive, each as equally loud and strident in their joshing as the other. Gwaine threatens to throw Merlin in the harbour for the pace he’s set. Both Lance and Arthur step to block his path, and Percival laughs so hard it bends him double, and then they’re all guffawing, and the moment, if there’d been one, is gone like a bubble. Merlin lets Leon set a measured pace on the way back, trailing at the rear. Watching. Alone.

On the bus, on the way to the Bane concert the day after, Morgana passes him his shirt. She doesn’t apologise, or even look remotely apologetic. She does send him a link to the photos. He doesn’t click it. He falls asleep on the bus instead. Arthur who shakes him awake is a great deal softer in his approach than the one in his dreams, the one who actually has a sword, and a tendency to wear armour and order him about a good deal. Dream Merlin likes that about as well as awake Merlin, which is to say that in his time below, Merlin came to grips with certain fundamental truths about himself and won’t be shamed for them, thank you all the same. He is, somehow, still surprised to find that it’s Arthur there, doing the shaking, with fond exasperation. 

“C’mon, idiot, we’re here.”

“’m sorry. Guess I overdid it.”

“Yes, well,” scoffs Arthur. “Pace yourself. Live a better life. Get your beauty sleep when you’re meant to.”

Merlin pushes him into the aisle, and down the steps. “Sleep’s dull.”

“Didn’t sound dull just now. All the moaning you were doing, heavy breathing and whatnot, tape that and you’d have a hit. In certain quarters.” 

Arthur thrust Aithusa from the luggage compartment behind him blindly, and Merlin took her carefully.

“Not Bane’s sound,” Merlin and Arthur chorus together, and Arthur turns to grin at him, a soft one, not the one that pre-empts a tackle to see if he can take Merlin unawares, or the hungry one that means there’s a trip to the chippy in his future. Which continues a beat more than usual, until Morgana barks at them to move, and he stops. 

“If you really want your beauty sleep so badly,” says Merlin, since Arthur seems disinclined to move, “I can swap with someone who’d disturb you less. Someone who’s actually a knight.”

Arthur’s face freezes, suddenly. “I said I was sorry.”

Merlin juggles Aithusa in his hands, suddenly very heavy, and begins the walk to the grounds. “Actually, you didn’t. It’s fine though. If you want. Must be annoying putting up with me all day, let alone all night. I can swap with Elyan? Gwen says he doesn’t snore much. Or didn’t, anyway, when they were kids.”

“Merlin,” says Arthur impatiently behind him.

“Or Leon. He’s very sensible. I’m sure he wouldn’t keep you up all night talking rubbish.”

“I’m sorry, Merlin. Okay?”

“I’ve said it’s fine. Wouldn’t suggest Gwaine, though. Not if you want a good night’s sleep. Not that he’s likely to be in his bed much anyway, the way he carries on. By the way, don’t wait on me tonight.”  
He lengthens his pace, and feels his legs ache, and Aithusa complains by making herself very heavy indeed. 

“Merlin,” Arthur calls after him, but he doesn’t want to stop. The sound booth is clean and empty, and he takes his time on the set up tonight, focussing only on the tasks ahead. Casts a quick clean on the booth, and then on the stage, before he remembers how tired he is. Stupid. 

Eats his emergency banana. Eats his emergency granola. Drinks his energy gel, that he’d been saving for later. Thinks about Arthur’s grin, the soft one, and then stops. He puts his earpiece in at the last minute, and ignores his vibrating phone. 

The concert’s a good one. Uther doesn’t fuck up, Percival sets a good bass, almost overly annoyingly on time, Elyan’s right where he should be, when he should be, Agravaine is fitting in, for a change, and doesn’t need to be tuned down, and Lance and Arthur are trading riffs for what feels like hours, on all the big songs. They’re all great, for Bane, or at least good, and there is very little for Merlin to do. His phone has the directions, Aithusa has his samples, and there’s nothing left to ready for tonight. Nothing left but to check his phone. The boys are up there having a great old time in their second encore, levels are fine, he has time. 

There’s a text from the venue reminding him of the directions and his time slot, and he shoots back a thanks. 

There’s a text from Gaius telling him to have fun, safely, and he sends a thanks. Sometimes he thinks Gaius thinks he’s living a more exciting life than he actually is, and he’s a little sad for the both of them.

There’s a text from Morgana, with an uncaptioned photo of her brother looking like a gormless clotpole, trapped in the armhole of a white shirt, half over his head, and that’s his favourite text message ever. He saves that.

Lance is leading tonight, and the motif he’s stolen is one he’s learnt below, all mixed up, and he questions the choice. Has a good look at him, a proper good look, and there’s something about him now, not quite a curse, and not quite a blessing. He needs to take Lance somewhere, sometime, and check. This isn’t the time. He’ll allow it, for now. 

There’s an email from his mother, which starts with a reminder that it’s his birthday, and she’s grateful he came back. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten birthdays, below. He’d been there too long between one mortal year and the next, the year he’d turned twenty one, that time had been centuries, and no cake below tasted of anything than what it was, which was not real. The one she’d made for him, when he came back, a birthday cake cooked with apples, picked by someone who loved him, had waited for him, and his mother’s smiling face behind it, is one of those things that he gets out of his memory and sits in, on bad days, and he remembers it now, as the boys play on stage, Arthur inverting Lance’s motif and throwing it back at him. Merlin remembers the taste of it, tart and sweet, and the embrace of his mother, and he’s happy again.

Happy enough to look at the last text, which is from Arthur. There are two parts.

Art: You can’t leave because you’re my white noise generator. How would I sleep? Have some consideration, please.  
Art: Karaoke tonight, and then some electronic festival. Come?

He pockets the phone. On stage, Arthur’s wrapping it up and then there’s last bows and lights off. It’s 11.30pm.

If he leaves, straight after karaoke, and has Gwaine distract Arthur, he’ll get there in time. 

He texts Arthur back, and tells himself it will be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by:  
> Magic Spell (This is the Kit)  
> Peter Gunn (pick your favourite)


	10. Losing one's head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gwaine meets the Green Knight, and makes a promise  
> And Merlin plays

“Turn around,” Percival’s singing, with his best amateur dramatics, up on the tiny stage, hand outstretched to Gwen, who is valiantly refusing, with her best Bonnie Tyler impersonation. It’s twelve now, or near as damn. For once, they’ve made a quick exit from the stadium, and no one’s bothered to change, but the pub’s already sweaty so no one cares. Merlin suspects that whoever picked the pub, picked it solely for its name, the Prince’s Men, it’s exactly genteel enough to suit Morgana, and exactly grungy enough not to care about an influx of sweaty people bent on shots and karaoke at midnight, and it’s close enough to the gig that Merlin’s not too stressed. There’s been one round in, courtesy of Morgana’s black Amex, and he did the old trick of accidentally on purpose spilling it down his shirt, silly old him. He needs to be clear, tonight. He needs to do his freedom justice.

The squad’s already done their boy band number, Arthur solemnly leading them in a chorus telling the pub’s crowd that they ‘want it that way’, and he’s not sure if anyone recognised them before that, but they certainly have now. Arthur’s signed a number of arms. Lance has waved off a number of what looked like indecent offers. Gwaine’s been to the bathroom twice, alone neither time, returning to the foot of the stage with another drink for each. They’ve been here all of half an hour.

Finally, with one last plea for bright eyes, Percival’s sappy song selection fades to a halt. Gwen’s a good sport, and he lifts her down off the tiny stage, and then there’s a call, from the back of the pub.

“A challenge,” the guy’s shouting. Nice voice, Merlin notes automatically. Hint of an accent. He’s a cowboy hat on, and Merlin tracks his progress through the crowd by it. “I challenge,” the man says, climbing the stage step, and only tripping a little bit. He’s as tall as Merlin, in a green shirt, open at the neck. He doesn’t look as drunk as Merlin’s expected, what with a challenge being issued and all. Maybe it’s a Brighton thing. “I challenge Bane to a duel. I will defeat you now, for my honour. Or you will win, for yours.” There’s something not quite right. He’s there on the stage, when Merlin looks, but when he really looks, looks properly, he’s a shade, and a shade alone.

Arthur goes to climb the steps, and Merlin can see the cocky smile forming, but before Merlin can grab him, Gwaine throws an arm out, and stops him. “Mine.” There’s a nod, and Arthur claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “Do us proud.”

“Won’t let you down, boss,” Gwaine calls from the stage. There’s cheers from the crowd, well lubricated by now, as Gwaine and the green stranger shake hands, formally, and exchange a couple of words away from the mike, whatever they’ve said pleasing to them both, it seems, as they’re smiling at their respective microphones now.

“Sir – Bert was it? Bertilak, so sorry – Sir Bertilak has chosen to go first. It seems that he ain’t got no satisfaction. Take it away, friend,” Gwaine calls, with a sweeping gesture, and stands to stage right, out of the way if the fellow wants to make a show of it.

He’s not a bad voice at all, and he’s intent on gaining the pub’s approval. He’s as hammy as Uther can be on his good nights, all Mick Jagger struts and lip pouts, and the crowd eats it up with every hip thrust, every swivel, and Gwaine eggs him on, cheering and clapping as much, if not more, than the drunkest of them. It’s a great time for everyone. It’s 12.15. Merlin’s cutting it close.

Bertilak bows at the end of it, and the crowd stamps their feet for more, but Gwaine’s on him instead, with a lip smacking kiss, bending the tall man back as easy as pie, and returning him to upright just the same. 

“My turn now, if you don’t mind,” Gwaine says, and although Bertilak looks somewhat dazed by the experience, he cedes the stage, finding a perch stage left. Merlin’s expecting a big show, it’s par for the course with Gwaine, but as always, there’s more to Gwaine than the obvious. He waits for the crowd to quiet before he cues up “Born to Run”, and he treats the lyrics seriously, serenading his opponent sincerely, every note dripping quiet desperation, not playing to the crowd one iota, but only the other man. Crowd loves it anyway, wilder in their cheering than any pitch yet hit that night, and that’s including the Bane concert. By the end, no man could have heard Gwaine, with every soul in the pub avowing that they too were born to run, and there’s a clear winner, as clear as day. 

Bertilak takes the hat from his head, and places it on Gwaine’s own. “An excellent battle and a worthy winner. Take my hat, and my honour too, treat what is mine as your own, and if you do, I will meet you in a year’s time, and it will be mine once more to take.” He drops the mike onto the karaoke table, and takes one more step to enfold Gwaine in an embrace that looks old, looks well practiced, looks comfortable. Kisses him long and deep, to further cheers, and wolfwhistles from Bane and crowd alike, and it’s in the stamping of feet, and all the noise that they part, Gwaine looking dazed for it this time. Bertilak’s down the steps, and into the crowd, and disappears from view, leaving Gwaine to make a shaky exit into the arms of Bane, leaving the stage for whoever wants it. He’s touching his lips like he’s never been kissed before, and there’s a story there, but Merlin’s out of time.

“Shots,” calls Gwen, grabbing for Morgana’s purse, and on the pretext of helping her with the tray, Merlin exits, Aithusa as light as a bird underarm. It’s 12.40. He’s no time to worry about whether the Bane’s seen him go, will see him later. He’s no headspace left. In his head, he’s half music already. The venue’s throbbing already, he can feel the energy fluttering in him, ready to burst, and he turns into a sidestreet, no crowds, and does a quick set of teleports, hopping from roof to roof, and cutting all the corners possible, Aithusa light with every step, she’s loving it. Overhead, there’s a big full moon. 

Backstage, he strips his shirt down, and there’s no time for make up, or anything. He calls on her favour, pays his respects to her, and the spirits of the coast, and offers her what she’ll have of him tonight for it. He’s getting a bit of a habit, a bit of a tab, but there’s no time now to worry about that. Future Merlin’s problem. Present Merlin can see that she’s given him a dragon’s mask, with eyes bigger than they should be, as golden as the sun, and patterns thick in woad, if he touches them, ivy down and around his arms, his chest, and further down. She’s let him keep the pants, which is nice. She doesn’t always. As he’s coming out, there’s people, and they say words to him, but he’s not really listening. Mordred is there, talking to a manager, and looking agape at him, and that’s a Future Merlin problem too, but he can’t think about it just now. 

The last set’s finishing as he sets up on the alternate stage. The crowd’s heaving, a solid mass of bodies, and he moves in the dark, sure of himself. They’ve a screen up the back, and one down the sides, currently all pixels, all fracture, as the dubset grinds out, and he tells Aithusa to go fly, and with a flicker that’s almost imperceptible, she takes them. There’s an instant when the pixels fizz and static strobe the crowd, in time with the final beats from the dubset, and then it’s his, and Aithusa blazes herself across it, a wing’d dragon, frozen in emblazon, before she starts to create, skittering across the screens, and it’s time. 

The first hour, he tries to keep to mild, tries not to take anyone too high, too quickly. Aithusa gets too excited. He riffs off the motif Lance had stolen and inverted, and stretches them, repeats them until they have no meaning, until they’re nothing but the beat under the skin, then he layers, and builds, and builds them until the crowd’s screaming with anticipation for the drop, and he drops a taster of the last thing he’d built in Wales, on Arthur’s noodling in the studio, and keeps the tension there, keeps the crowd on the edge until they’re high with it, and then and only then does he let them have it. He can feel the floor shaking, he can’t hear the crowd any more. Aithusa’s flames decorate like plasma, like they should burn crystal into dust, and he can see the faces in the crowd, open in ecstasy, Rhiannon will be well pleased with him tonight. 

The second hour, and four bottles of water later, there’s a cowboy hat in the crowd, and he can see them, finally. The Bane motifs are well and truly part of the set now, and he wonders if they can hear it. If they know. If Morgana’s here, in the heaving mass, she’ll understand. If Morgana’s here, she’s meant to be here, now. It’s in Rhiannon’s hands. 

They seem to be having the time of their little Bane squad lives. Gwaine’s found his man in green, and is bouncing up and down like a pogo stick. There’s a little cluster of three, next the cowboy hat, Morgana, holding Lance’s hand and Gwen between them, and he promised he wouldn’t ask, but he’s not unhappy to see it, not at all. Leon’s hand is in the air, as is Percival’s, head down, watching their feet like they’re stomping the ground flat, old school, and he wonders whether something else was taken between the Prince and the warehouse, because Percy’s chewing air, and stomping with an ecstatic grin, and he’s not even in a good bit of the beat. Doesn’t matter. Leon’s got him. Elyan’s found a girl, he can see, if he looks harder. Bors and Galahad are nowhere to be found. And Arthur? He’s all awkward angles with this. He’s elbows, and knees, and grimaces every time he fouls a step, and he’s not looking at the crew, not eyeing off any likelies, not even looking at the stage with a scowl. It’s not working. He hasn’t heard.

He drops it all down, suddenly, and sighs. The sigh reverberates through the warehouse, because the mike’s on, of course it is. Even though he’s certain he closed it. He brings back in a whisper beat, just tickling the insteps, and he knows what he’s doing now. Arthur had told him, after all. It’s Beltane, it’s his birthday and he needs to give Rhiannon her due.

He exhales, all low and shaky, into the mike, as he brings in a throbbing bass, just north of a cheesy porno soundtrack. Groans, like he’s been touched, as the bass builds. Lets his breath come hard, like he’s been running, or something more interesting. Moans, just a little out of time, just a little one, on the upbeat. Loops it. After it’s laid down nicely, settled into everyone’s rhythms, he lets the words flow out.

“I,” he sighs, low as the baritone track he’s interlaced, and lets it sigh across the moans. Like it’s accidental. “I could,” and it’s more of a question, like he’s asking someone. “I could take,” and that one’s a statement, he could take them all, but he’s doing it with music, and not magic, because he can, he could, if he builds this right. “I could take you,” and he brings in a bit more of a beat, a bit more specificity to the promise, the boast, the threat, before he adds the last word, “I could take you apart,” and then half under his breath “(if you’ll let me)”. Then he loops that sequence too, over the bass, and the baritone, and the throbbing, and the moans, before he starts again, this time with a little more drive. 

It’s working on the crowd, he can see, it’s less Apollo and more Dionysus down there, and perhaps he’d gone a little hard on the moaning, because if no one was twisted around each other before, it’s all happening down there now. Gwaine’s got his man and then some, and it’s a good job this is an over age venue, because his hand, if Merlin’s guessing right, is getting some, right on the dancefloor, and no one other than Merlin’s looking. He can’t tell quite what’s going on in the triad, but it’s not really his business and they all seem happy with where their respective hands are. Elyan’s disappeared. Percy and Leon are keep on keeping on, so that’s fine. Arthur’s found his feet, and his eyes are, as far as he can see, closed.

Time to build it, then. There’s a tune that goes with this in his head, more of a chant, that’s built, been building, for months, and it’s a simple one, really, but it doesn’t need to be complicated. It’s better that way. It’s almost a conversation that he’s having with the crowd. “I could take you apart, if you let me.” And then straight on with the matching line, “I could take you apart, with one blow”. And loops that, again, loops it over a building bass, “I could take you, I could take you, I could take you,” until the crowd’s chanting it along with the lyric loop “I could take you apart with one blow”, arms in the air at the right time, punching the air, releasing the energy. He’s done that, and he can feel how pleased she is, and Aithusa’s scattering sparks across the screens, one by one, and Arthur’s right along there with him, his fist in the air, his head thrown back, finally succumbed.

He lets it run, until he sees his successor finally set up, it’s 4am now, sunup in an hour or so, and then he calls Aithusa back, with a scatter of sparks of his own. Pulls the music out entirely, but not the moans, to close it up with a final promise, low and lustful as his voice can go, and although it’s the crowd that hears it, it’s really only Arthur he’s talking to, “ - I could take you apart with less than that”.  
His successor gives it two seconds before dropping her own track in, matching his bass, but it’s long enough. Crowd goes wild, Rhiannon’s night is made, and he’s golden. He’s glowing with magic, if anyone knows to look. Aithusa’s quick to settle down into her shell, and she’s as light as a feather. So’s he. Backstage, there’s a handshake, and something he can’t hear, all he’s got in his head is his words, and the beat. He can’t find his shirt, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He needs to get back. 

“Stay, a bit. We’ll watch her for you,” the manager’s saying, and stows her away in a locker, hands him a key, hands him a water bottle, and he realises just how parched he is. Drinks it down deep, drinks it dry, finds a bin and spins it in, just for the fun of it, first shot. Wipes at the sweat on his eyelids, to find that she’s left a mask on. Not the whole thing, not the whole dragon, just Herne’ horns, enough for plausible deniability, if he wants. He wants. He wants, badly. He wants. 

The crowd’s a heaving mass, and he’s certain he’s the only sober one in the warehouse, not that he’s wholly sober, riding that energy. There are bodies up against him, and hands, but he doesn’t stop. The cowboy hat’s somewhere out there, or gone, and whether or not Bane’s crew are there, makes no difference. Merlin’s a filthy liar, even to himself sometimes, and it’s his birthday, and he needs to stop lying, even if it’s just for tonight. He can have tonight. He can have this. He closes his eyes and feels the bass come up through his feet, and searches out their energies, and accidentally on purpose stumbles into that area. Because even if he’s not a knight, they’re his knights, and they’re his to watch over. He shakes his head, even as he sees Leon and Percy. He’s lying still. He wants to see Arthur, wrecked by his music, by what he’s done. He wants to see it for himself, up close. 

He's never played the role of the huntsman before, although he’s ridden with the hunt, and been the quarry often enough. He can see Arthur’s blond head weaving through the crowd, in search of something himself, and he follows a body length behind, stopping when he does, starting when he starts, like there’s an invisible cord connecting them. When Arthur strays into the liminal zone, the shadow of the wall, he’s too close to arrest his forward motion. Traps him, against the wall, the cage of arms as he’d imagined them this morning, albeit twisted now with Rhiannon’s vines, and triple knots, and breathes down his neck, above his pulse, beating as fast as the music. 

There’s a beat there, where Arthur stops breathing himself, and Merlin holds himself free of touch, breathing hard for the both of them. Then he twists, to face his pursuer. Merlin wonders how much he can see, through Rhiannon’s glamour, through the golden eyes, and darkened kohl, the horns standing straight up and concealing his ears. Watches Arthur’s eyes, already wide pupils in the dark, widen still further, looking back at him. Coward, liar, still, he’s preparing the story, the joke, did I fool you? did it work, silly old me, when Arthur leans up and kisses him, soft, soft as a petal on skin at first, and then, as Merlin loses his breath again, hard and hungry, all conquering, and Merlin folds himself tight about Arthur, for fear that this isn’t real, one of Rhiannon’s tricks, because he’s not meant to be the one who gets the nice things, and this is exceeding nice, breathtakingly nice, and he’s never imagined it as nice as this, Arthur’s hands on the bare skin of his back leaving heat behind them, and Arthur moaning into his mouth, and Arthur, Arthur, Arthur burning up against him like fire, the golden one.

He ignores it, the first time he’s called, for this is too rare, too precious to stop. If he stops, he may never start again, and that thought’s unbearable. The second, the third time, conscious thought returns. It’s Mordred. Of course.

“Emrys, gods, that was the best,” Mordred’s saying, and Merlin disengages, leaving Arthur panting, against the cold wall. Protected behind him, from Mordred’s sight, if he’s lucky, as he turns and places himself between them like a shield.

“Something you need?” He modulates his voice as deliberately as he can. Even pitched, and calm. It’s not his fault that Merlin’s this possessed. Merlin was twenty one, once, a million years ago, he remembers, and he disturbed enough at the court at the wrong times and received excessive punishment enough that he knows how unfair it would be to turn his displeasure on Mordred right now. He’s hardly able to bear it, doesn’t know himself at all. In the liminal zone, and this full of energy, of Arthur, he can’t help but see it though, the mantle hanging about Mordred pushing him into the action, and he wonders if Mordred knows. 

“No, just it’s finishing, and wanted to catch you before you left. My name’s Mordred. I listen to all your tracks, you’re my favourite. Any more gigs coming up?”

Merlin’s no answer. “Watch and see,” he offers. What does Arthur say in these situations? “Always nice to meet a fan,” he parrots, and feels Arthur snort behind him. Hot breath at the back of his neck. “Best get going then,” he prompts, and Mordred smiles, all innocence, and takes off into the crowd, which is thinning, he’s right.

He feels Arthur’s hands on his waist, proprietorial already. “Emrys, is that how you say it?” Arthur says. It’s almost too much. He may have caught Arthur, but he’s caught now himself, Arthur’s arms snaking about his waist, turning him about with a great deal more care than he’s ever used on Merlin, touching his forehead to Merlin’s, and he can feel the weight of the mask between them. If he doesn't go now, he won't go at all. 

“I have to go,” he says, as much to himself as to Arthur. 

“No,” says Arthur, “You don’t.” Arthur’s hands grab Merlin by the rear and bring him close, flush against him again, against Arthur’s hard body, all of it, and Arthur’s heat, and Merlin can’t let this continue. He shouldn’t. He does, for a moment, just because he’s weak, and he wants to remember this, in the nights when he’s down in the sound pit, watching him strut the stage, and then he pulls back. 

“The kid’s right. I have to go.” 

Arthur grins, all teeth. “I’ll find you, Emrys.” It’s half a promise, and half a threat.

Merlin grins back, with a clench of his stomach, swallowing down the fear about what exactly Arthur’s going to do about it, when he finds him. Arthur doesn’t like deception. Arthur’s never shown any signs of being prepared to tolerate magic. “No doubt. I look forward to it, Arthur.” 

He can feel Arthur’s eyes track him back through the thinning crowd, and by the time he’s backstage, the mask, the vines, the triple knots, all gone. Aithusa’s asleep when he retrieves her. He finds his shirt, and covers up against the morning chill, and steps out of the rear entrance of the warehouse to greet the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by a lack of self control  
> Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler)  
> I Want It That Way (Backstreet Boys)  
> Satisfaction (Rolling Stones)  
> Born to Run (Bruce Springsteen)  
> Spikee (Underworld)  
> Strange World (Push)  
> One Touch (LCD Soundsystem)  
> Absurd (Fluke)


	11. Morning light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers are the worst. Especially watching other people have them.

He should be asleep, passed out face down somewhere. He should be hungover, and muscles aching, and he’s not. There’s a great deal of things he should be feeling, and he doesn’t feel any of them. The café he’s sitting in is paled out, dirty floored, and he’s had to wipe brown sauce off the table, before he’s prepared to put Aithusa out, not a great place for examining feelings, and he’s half picked it for that reason. He’s a task to do. Aithusa’s smaller in the daylight, more vulnerable. More precious. He tickles her memory banks, and she lets him have her recordings from last night, bleeding them straight over to his phone. The programmes there are simpler than those on the setup he has back home in Ealdor, but they’re enough for him to do a simple polish, upload the set a bit cleaned up to his channel, and to cut the last hour down to something the charts will count as a song, slaps a quick title on it, with a grin at his sleeping beast, Dragon’s Call, and sends it out into the world to fend for itself. 

He texts Gaius, with a link. And gratitude. A lot of it. More please.

Morgana’d texted him, after the gig, 4 hours ago. Call her ASAP. He’s not ready to do that yet.

He emails his mum, with a picture of the sunrise, and a selfie, here’s your son, one year older, and she calls him, and he tells her about Penzance, and the sea, and the gulls crying, about the cliffs. She tells him about the crocuses that he’s missed, the new lambs. How Will’s mam is keeping. He promises to call more often and she tells him that he’s no need, just whenever he needs to. After she hangs up, he feels like someone’s put a soft blanket about him, warm and fuzzy, not asking for anything in return. It’s strengthening bits in him he didn’t know needed it. Not after last night. 

He looks at the selfie, and he’s all scruff and fluffy hair, and eyes that look more tired than he feels. He’s going to crash, and crash hard, soon. He should probably get back to the hotel before that happens. He’s slept on a hillside before, on a beach, on the top of a building, in a bus stop, and it’s never been great, after. He’s been nibbled by a sheep. Peed on by neighbourhood dogs, keen to mark him as their own, which is sweet but also gross. Rhiannon’s not good at the aftermath. He’s eaten three breakfasts, and had four coffees. He could still eat, but the red gold’s faded from the sky, and the crash is coming.

He hops an uber back to the hotel, and the grounds are quiet. The bus is lurking, covered in yellow fuzz, but there’s nothing left in the tank today to deal with it. No pressing need, either. It’s a rest day, and he’s going to rest. 

His door’s unlocked, sloppy Arthur, and he locks it behind him, as quietly as possible. Carefully stows Aithusa on the luggage rack, before he takes in the scene. 

There’s a trail of clothes, which is pretty normal, Arthur’s never been the tidiest of roommates. What isn’t normal is what’s at the end of them: Arthur, in Merlin’s bed, clad only in what his mother gave him at birth. He’s glowing in the early morning light, like he’s been dipped in honey, and Merlin’s only human, he takes a step, and then another, towards him, before he thinks. It’s not really Merlin’s bed, rationalises Merlin. He’s only slept in it two nights. Understandable confusion, if you were as merry as Arthur must have been. It doesn’t mean a thing. Neither does the nudity, not really. He can imagine the chain of events leading up to it. Arthur runs hot at the best of times, the karaoke, the shots, the club, and possibly more shots, the walking back from Brighton seaside, all of which would have lead to heat. Arthur wishes to remove heat, ergo Arthur removes clothes. There’s a wastebin by his head, because although Arthur’s not tidy, he’s not stupid, and he’s not revealed himself to be in the habit of making the life of those who clean, and cook, and serve him, harder than it needs to be. Excepting, of course, for Merlin, for whom life is being made excessively hard this morning. He’s any number of ways of dealing with this, but not enough of his brain awake to really choose whether any of them make sense, and he operates on automatic, fetching a glass of water, which he puts by the bin, and pulling up a coverlet over Arthur’s quite splendidly naked arse which he’s too tired to properly appreciate, before stripping down to his pants, putting his clothes neatly on his duffle, and climbing into the other bed. Arthur mumbles something, but he can’t make it out. Then, as he’s snuggled down into the bed, smelling of Arthur’s body, he does, and he’d not been of the view that it was possible to be jealous of yourself, but it transpires that it is, because what Arthur’s mumbling, murmuring, or moaning, pick your M, is his real name. 

He sleeps through lunch, and dinner, and wakes with a crick in his neck at 10pm. Arthur’s nowhere to be found, but the clothes have been picked up, and the wastebin and water glass are gone. He’s parched. He’s hungry, and his nose tells him that somewhere in the hotel, someone’s eating pizza. His muscles feel like barbed wire, and his head’s finally empty. There’d been strange dreams again, questing beasts, and talking owls, and Arthur all crooked grins, and telling him to never change, that he doesn’t want Merlin to change, and a sense of foreboding, which he shakes off, drinking two glasses of water, cold, one after another, and peeing for a full two minutes. Showers, tracing over where hands had been, and then telling himself to forget it. Thinking about Arthur’s hands is going to lead to thinking about Arthur’s bare arse in the golden hour of morning, and that isn’t going to lead to a situation where he can meet Arthur’s eyes in the evening, like he has to. He hasn’t given in yet, and he’s not going to now, he tells himself. Certain parts of his body ignore that dictate, and he turns the shower to cold. He brushes his teeth, too, for good measure. Then his hair. Stretches the muscles, so that the barbed wire disappears, but he’s still aware of them in a way which usually promises pain tomorrow. Joy. He changes his shirt three times, before giving up and selecting the black t-shirt that smells the least offensive. 

Then there’s nothing left to stall with, and it’s time to follow the pizza smell downstairs. As he tracks down his quarry, he can hear the music too. The hotel games room has been taken over, par for the course, by the Bane crew, and a cheers goes up as he enters the room. 

Arthur’s lying on his back on the floor, picking melodies absently out on his guitar, eyes closed. In his red shirt, and with just enough stubble to make it clear that he’s having a day off. Biting at his lower lip. They’re not the Bane’s songs. They’re not anything that Merlin recognises, until, with a start, he does. He’s clipped bits out of the call and response he crafted last night, and he’s noodling on them. He’s cold and hot at the same time with it, and he can’t look any more, in case Arthur stops. 

Morgana’s sprawled, seemingly asleep, across Lance and Gwen both, feet in his lap, head in hers, eyes similarly closed, and Gwen is holding what looks like a cold can of pop to Morgana’s head, Lance rubbing her feet. 

The rest of them are surrounding a pool table, pizza boxes over a plastic cover, and Merlin forces his way in, pig to the trough. 

“Merlin,” says Elyan, “Thought you’d never stir. Good night last night, was it?”

Merlin mumbles something around his second piece of pizza. Ham and pineapple. Not his favourite, but he’s too hungry to care.

“Elyan,” hisses Gwen. “Keep it down. Don’t wake her up.”

Elyan rolls his eyes, but where Gwen can’t see. “Left before you even had a chance to sing. What’s that about?”

“He’s a coward, is all.” Says Arthur from the floor. “Never thought of it of you before, Merlin. Too good to sing in company, is it?”

Merlin looks down at Arthur, who’s smiling smugly, with his eyes still closed. Looks at Morgana, who’s opened her eyes, just a little, and is looking at him. She shakes her head, just a little, and closes her eyes again.

“Yep,” says Merlin, smiling as widely as possible, feeling slightly ill now himself, “that’s me. Wouldn’t know what to do with a mike, myself. I’m behind the desk, me, and that’s it.”

“Well,” says Elyan, “You missed a great night, and no mistake.”

Merlin shoves another piece of pizza in his mouth, and tells his stomach to shut it, gesturing at the pizza eaters to elaborate. 

Percy pours out a glass of soda, which Merlin downs in one swallow, or so it feels. “Gwaine’s in love. Or something. Vow of chastity, he says. For a year, he says. Look at the man, will you? We’ve a pool going. What month will you have?”

Gwaine waves him down, but doesn’t bother stirring from the soft brown easy chair to threaten Percy any further. “You’re all heartless, so you are. Wouldn’t understand.”

Merlin shakes his head at Percy. “’m not betting on whether Gwaine gets his end away. None of my business. Fair play to you, Gwaine. You’ll do it, and no mistake, if you’ve a mind to it.”

“Easy enough for you to say, Merlin. It’s not like you’ve got crowds beating down your door, it’d be a special breed of weirdo to find you attractive. Easier to resist temptation if you’re not presented with it, am I right, fellows? Or did you find yourself a bed to lie in last night, for you certainly weren’t in yours, when I came in,” says Arthur, opening his eyes, and craning his head back. Bastard. It’s too hard, on the spot, to figure out what Arthur’s saying and what he’s not saying. He’d certainly found Emrys attractive, and Merlin had thought, no, he’d hoped, no, he’d thought that he’d found Merlin at least of interest. Apparently, he was wrong. It was all Rhiannon’s glamour’s doing, and none of his own. Merlin swallows the last of his slice and licks his fingers clean, just to see if Arthur looks, which he does. Which could just be Arthur’s catlike instincts to track motion, and not a thing about Merlin at all. His birthday’s over, then. 

“Cheers, yeah, thanks for that, ever so. If I find someone sufficiently weird, I’ll let you know. Was doing something for Gaius, is all, sound engineer business. Didn’t catch a wink of sleep last night.” Merlin says, with his best imitation of someone put upon and exhausted, which he is on both counts. Plus a little bit broken hearted now, but he’s not going to let on to that, thank you. 

“Oh, god,” says Elyan. “you missed a good night, man. The best. That electronics festival we went on to, floor was fair heaving. Could have sworn we were only there five minutes, and then the sun was up. Don’t let on to your dad, mind Arthur, but it was fair proper awesome.”

“My feet won’t hold me up anymore,” says Gwen, with exhausted satisfaction. “I didn’t know I could last that long but as long as the music played, I danced, and then some. Whoever did the light show, Morgana wants to steal. You’ll have to come out next time, Merlin.” Lance looks at Merlin, and nods. That’s a yes from Lance, he knew what Merlin was playing at last night. That’s two, then, with Morgana. Then again, both of them already hold his secrets, and have held them safe enough. There’s nothing extra to be worried about there.

Arthur, though, is something else. Different category of worry. Whole separate kettle of fish. Barrel of apples. Planet of the apes. Whole enchilada kind of worry. “Do you rate it, then, or nah?” He nudges Arthur’s foot with his own. Arthur waves at his foot vaguely, but it’s out of reach. 

“Oh,” says Arthur, once Merlin’s stopped. “It wasn’t bad. I’ve had worse nights.”

Gwaine snorts from his easy chair. “What the princess isn’t saying over there, is that he’s gone and fallen himself. As hard as anyone ever did fall, I reckon. All misty eyed, and such. Emrys, the one that got away. Body like an angel, and kisses like a fallen one. Voice that could turn saints to sin. Oh, and the music. Father’s wrong, and he never knew it before, he says. He’s seen the light, hallelujah. A man reformed.”

“Shut it, Gwaine,” says Arthur, sitting up abruptly, and then falling back down, one hand on his guitar, the other to his head. “Just leave it alone. Just leave it.”

The pizza’s making him feel a little more nauseous than he’d like. This is a mite cruel, even for Rhiannon. Arthur’s going to kill him, now, for sure, when he finds out.

“Ah,” he says. “Music, the knife with no hilt. I reckon, give it a couple of weeks, it’ll wear off. By the time we get to London, even.”

“That’s a bet I can get behind,” says Morgana. “Parameters are these. You win, if Arthur’s under someone new before London, you can have an extra day off there. Gaius can cover, surely. I’m backing my brother, I reckon he’s not getting over this one. I win, I get a free day of your service. I’m talking homemade French toast and flowers all day.”

She cracks open an eye and looks up at him, safe in her twin laps, already being waited on hand and foot by two very attractive individuals. 

Arthur looks at her with squinted eyes. “I’m not telling you if I sleep with someone. That’s none of your business at all, Morgana. I’m not asking you any personal questions, because I don’t want the very personal details. Please don’t share them with me.”

Gwen and Lance both kick him. 

Morgana smiles and closes her eyes. “I’m your sister and I’m not unobservant. I’ll know.”

He’s going to have to have a word with Morgana about many things, one of the important ones being ethics in the use of scrying. “

Still none of your business,” says Arthur smugly.

“Look,” says Merlin. “I’m not betting with people about people sleeping with other people. It’s Arthur’s business whether, you know. That. I’m just saying, these kinds of nights, it’s all a bit heightened. There’s a lot of build up. All the, you know, drinking, and the flashing lights, and such. Fast music. It’s all artificial. It’s meant to make you feel that way. Probably wasn’t even that fit. If you saw him again, you know, with the lights on, and without all that, well then.”

There’s way too much adrenaline happening in his body for this conversation, and he’s contemplating an evening jog, because that feels safer than staying in it, when Arthur grabs his ankle, and tugs. Pizza crusts hit the deck, as does Merlin, who remembers enough of his breakfalls, luckily, not to brain himself or break his arms. He can hear Morgana giggling, faintly, and he hopes her hangover gets worse before it gets better. 

“Hey,” he squeaks out. “That was totally unnecessary.” 

Arthur’s hand is still on his ankle. It’s as firm as the grip he had last night. He’s going to be covered in Arthur hand bruises, if this keeps on. Arthur’s eyes are very blue, and very sincere, at this close range. It’s not really fair, not at all. 

“Beg to differ. If I saw him again, without the lights, and the music, wouldn’t make any difference.”

“Okay. I believe you that that’s what you think. I just can’t see it, myself. You, Uther’s son, with someone who’s into EDM? I can’t see that working. The whole ‘fight against evil’ thing?”

Arthur rolls back onto his back, but doesn’t release him. “Yeah. That. I’d find a way to make it work. It’d work.” He’s rubbing circles around Merlin’s anklebone. It’s nice. 

“I’m very happy for you. You and Emrys.” Says Merlin, looking devoutly at the ceiling and trying to ignore Arthur.

Arthur sighs happily and lets him go, the better to start plucking at the guitar again. There’s the tune, the one he’d knocked up on the fly and released, I could take you, and then there’s the response, but he’s made it into more, he’s doing some bits to it in the upper register, and syncopation in a way of which his father would never approve, and gods help him, Arthur’s singing snatches under his breath. 

He’s not going to be seduced by his own music, by someone who doesn’t even know who he is. Yeah, he is. Gwen takes a photograph and sends it to him, which he files in the same folder as the ones with the Knight squad, never to be looked at.

They move on, in the morning, to the next seaside town. The squad wears their Knights In Training t-shirts, and he wears black, and they jog, and they all sweat together, and there’s no more strained looks by Arthur, so Merlin keeps his to a minimum. He buys his own oatmeal soap, like mam used to make for him, so that he smells like him, and not exotic fruits and spices, but it doesn’t help. In a way, it makes it worse, because now he knows that if he smells cinnamon, it’s Arthur, and he feels all kinds of hungry. Makes bakers shops very awkward to navigate. He dreams, at night, and they don’t feel like dreams. In some of them Arthur dies. Sometimes it’s Lance. Sometimes it’s Mordred. In some of them, Morgana hates him. He looks at them all, during the day, and the images overlap, unless he concentrates. 

Bane’s fine. The concerts are well attended, and Merlin’s little to do but sit on his thumbs, and listen, most of the time. Then there are nights when Arthur throws in his little noodling of Merlin’s tune, and then he’s all ears. Morgana thinks it’s hilarious. It becomes more hilarious as the week, the fortnight, the month goes on, and Dragon’s Call charts not just in Wales, not just in England, but also in France, where it’s been retitled, over Merlin’s small protests, “La Pipe”, just so everyone knows what everyone’s singing about, and Arthur keeps throwing it in. It’s right under Uther’s nose, so to speak, and it’s only a matter of time before he twigs to it, and that’s only because it comes on the radio at the wrong time, on the way to that night’s gig, and the bus erupts, like a footie crowd, fists in the air, one blow, and Merlin stares out of the window, so no one can see his inane grin, happy until Uther curtly tells Tal to switch that pornographic rubbish off, all that moaning, and all that electronic crap, not music, not right, and he’s disappointed in the lot of them. That they’re all being twisted, and need to purify themselves. Take a good look at themselves. 

Arthur doesn’t say anything, at the time, but next to him, he can feel Arthur’s shoulders roll back and set, like he’s ready to charge. That night, he throws it in every riff he can, even the ones where it doesn’t really fit, shifting keys, and rhythms on the fly, like a dare to his father, and Uther can’t stop him, not on stage, not in front of thousands of black clad Bane supporters. 

That night, though. There’s closed doors, and shouting, Uther and Arthur, and Morgana and Ag all locked up together, and Arthur doesn’t come in until Merlin really ought to be asleep. Arthur strips his shirt off, his pants, quickly, methodically, and stands in the dark, rubbing at his face until Merlin’s worried for his eyebrows. Merlin’s breath is loud in the dark, and he sits up, there’s not much point in pretending to be asleep if Arthur’s that upset. Not really.

“It was good, tonight. In case you needed hearing that.”

Arthur drops his hands, startled, and into a defensive pose, doing interesting things to his muscles in the moonlight. “You’re a cat, aren’t you? An actual cat. One of those annoying ones that trips you over accidentally on purpose.”

“Meow?” says Merlin weakly. 

Arthur’s arms drop, and he sits on his bed. “My father’s right, of course, so far as Bane’s concerned.”

“Mm,” says Merlin, not committing one way or the other. “You don’t always have to agree with him, you know.”

“He’s my dad, and it’s his band. It’s not really my place to agree or not.”

Merlin tips his head back on the pillow so he doesn’t have to see that expression Arthur’s making, the one where he’s absolutely flat. “Sure. I mean, I didn’t meet my dad until a couple of years ago, so’s not like I’ve got much to offer in the way of advice, even if you asked for it.”

“Which I’m not.”

“Which you’re not, right. Then, when I met him, it fucked me up. I wanted him to like me, so much. Yeah, I’m sad, I know. Little puppy. I wanted him to be proud of me, and I tried so hard, so so hard, to be like him.”

“The parallels are just simply shattering, thanks. Do you have a point that you’re trying to make with that blunt instrument?”

“Yeah, I do,” says Merlin, turning over to watch Arthur, who is now looking at the ceiling like it’s got more to offer, which is a little insulting. He’s not even making this story up. “I realised, when I was being sent off to do yet another thing that he’d done when he was young, and of course excelled at, because that’s how all his stories went, that he had not the first idea about me. What I was, to him, was a younger better version of himself, with some of the edges knocked off, and my mum’s pretty face slapped on. There was no way that I could be that, I knew that, even if he didn’t. My growing up had been so very different to him, and he wasn’t there for any of it. Once I knew that, it was different. ‘m not saying I didn’t want him to be proud of me, because that bit doesn’t go away. I’m a sad little man, me, I know. Just I knew that it was more important that I be proud of me. That meant he was going to have to be disappointed when I wasn’t that little version of him, and I was going to have to cop that on the chin. So I did. It sucked. And now, ta da, the glorious vision you see before you.” He pulls the sheet up further under his chin.

There’s silence, for a minute, as Arthur does likewise. 

“You talk too much.”

“You need to brush your teeth.”

Arthur sighs, and throws his sheets back. “I’m not doing this because you told me to, or anything. It’s just that I do need to brush my teeth.”

Merlin thinks very hard about not causing the water to splash him, and then goes ahead and does it anyway, and there’s a started squawk from the bathroom. 

He’s very careful to be asleep when Arthur returns. 

The next night, Arthur lets Lance lead the solos, and looks suitably in awe of his playing, and doesn’t step out of line, and Uther’s appropriately happy on the bus on the way back to the hotel, as shown by the fact that he doesn’t shout at everyone and call them first class imbeciles. It’s not that Merlin is disappointed, per se, although he is. It’s just that after, Arthur looks disappointed in himself. 

They have one final day at the coast, before Bane’s due to play a London gig. Merlin had plans for a lovely solo ramble along the rocks, to see if he could find any really interesting shells, and perhaps an ice or two, and a good listen to the birds, and the waves, and perhaps some really nice artistic photos to send to Gaius, and made the mistake of saying this before the jog, because Lance asked him politely what he was doing with his day. As a consequence, the ramble was not solo. Everyone came. Not just the knights, but the whole crew, from Uther down to the last hire of the stagecrew, Uther in rolled up trousers and vest, the stagecrew in rather clinging speedos, red.

The knights, all, apparently were blessed with sand castle building skills, or claimed that they were, and competitive to a man, Merlin left them all building increasingly higher and more complex creations, excepting only Elyan, who allowed his sister to bury him up to his neck, in exchange for an icecream, which she had to feed to him, and Lance, who elected instead to accompany Merlin to the rockpools, and Morgana, claiming that they both required supervision. As she was busily occupying herself smothering Merlin in whitest of white sunscreen, and he was concerned for his safety, he decided not to argue the point.

It was at a suitable distance that Morgana started raising the difficult topics. Without warning, rude. “Bags not tell Gwaine he’s in love with a ghost.”

Merlin dropped his icecream out of his cone, to the joy of the seagulls trailing him. 

“I think he already knows,” said Merlin. “I think it’s his husband. You know, from before.”

“Then someone needs to check on him, Merlin. Not that I’m saying it has to be you, Merlin,” said Morgana, “but someone should make sure he’s okay. Who hasn’t slept with him already. I vote you off the island.”

Merlin crunched the remains of his icecream cone morosely. It had been an excellent combination, the bit that he’d had, figs and cinnamon, and he really had enjoyed the bit that he’d had. Much more than he suspected the seagulls were going to enjoy it. Bastards. 

“Yes, okay. I’ll talk to Gwaine. Disappearing man, husband, is he okay with the whole thing. Got it. Thanks.” 

“Are we going to talk about the MRs thing?”

“How about we don’t.” said Merlin, scrunching his napkin up and throwing it at the bin, and missing, and then picking it up and throwing it in again. “I’m not asking you any questions about whatever it is you are both doing with Gwen, am I? How about, we all just mind our own business and I get on with my life?”

This did not seem to sidetrack either Lance, or Morgana, who continued to look at him with sympathy, in the case of Lance, and something that reminded him of that awful police person Aredian, in the case of Morgana. 

“I think that there’s some pretty key differences there. For the one, Gwen and Lance and I know what we’re doing with each other, and we’re all quite happy about it. You don’t look happy. Neither does Arthur, for that matter, although he seems to be enjoying it a bit more.”

“How about we talk about whatever the thing is on Lance, and how we get rid of it.”

Unsurprisingly, Lance was amenable to being distracted on that topic. 

Then, they spent an unenjoyable half an hour pretending to examine rock pools, while Merlin and Morgana prodded the areas about Lance that weren’t exactly him, and reached no solid conclusions beyond that they needed a good space, without interruptions, to come to a solid conclusion and then, if possible, do something about it, which could be achieved in Morgana’s flat, back in London, in a week’s time. That being resolved, Morgana, like a dog with a bone, or at least its favourite frisbee, returned to topic A. 

She smiled. “Emrys. MRs. Merlin Rhys, Sounds. Yes?”

Merlin kicked at a periwinkle. “It was cooler in my head. When you say it like that, I sound like a twelve year old with pretensions.”

Lance laughed, and put the periwinkle back in a rockpool. “Twelve year olds don’t make noises like that.”

“Mm,” said Morgana. “Body like a fallen angel, Arthur said. That’s yours. The voice too. He’s going to figure it out sooner or later, you know. You’re sharing a room, and you’re not exactly quiet.”

Merlin looked back across the sand. Arthur was leading a charge of the squad into the water, with a great deal of noise and splashing, everyone in Pendragon red, everyone merry. “If he figures it out, he figures it out. He’s not really in, you know, that, with Emrys. It’s all just exciting and mysterious and Arthur likes that. It doesn’t matter as long as Emrys guides him to what he has to do, whatever she thinks that is. It’s important. He can hate me all he wants, afterwards.”

Lance put a hand on his shoulder. “You should tell him now. It’ll be bad, once he figures it out, if you don’t, something as personal as that.” 

“Personal isn’t the same as important, not to her below. If she wants him to know, then he’ll know. Gods know I didn’t get it right last time.”

“You’re not making any sense,” said Lance, looking him over, and not finding a clue.

“I think he might be,” said Morgana. “I have dreams, sometimes. I say dreams, but really, nightmares, mostly. I don’t think anyone got it right last time. This time, don’t you think you deserve to be happy? Emrys is you, really. Don’t even try to tell me that you aren’t head over heels.”

Merlin looked at his feet, and the tiny fish splashing about in the pool below him, in and out of the anemones, all unawares of the potential threat posed from above. “‘Deserves’ isn’t the way Rhiannon works. Arthur, and getting Arthur to wherever it is Rhiannon needs him to be, that matters. I don’t.”

Morgana toed the pool. “I think it should. I think you do.” Ripples spread across its surface, and the fish scattered, scared. 

Merlin looked down on the beach. Arthur was throwing himself backwards like an ungainly starfish, mouth wide in laughter, splashing Gwaine in the face. Resurfacing, and spurting water from his mouth, dolphin like, amused with his own stupidity, water matting his hair, and then flicking out, as he shook it. Merlin smiled in spite of himself. “I think I’m going for a swim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by a general sense of being resigned to one's fate and hoping that there'll be good bits.  
> And  
> Overkill (Motorhead)  
> The Wicker Man (Iron Maiden)  
> Let It Die (Foo Fighters)


	12. Destiny and chicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and there was only one bed  
> (but this is mostly soft bois being soft bois)

“I thought you were staying with Arthur? Morgana said,” said Gaius, tinny down the phone line. “It’s not convenient for me just now, I’ve another friend staying.”

“Oh,” said Merlin, and then “Oh! A friend, is it? Okay. Have fun. Be safe. What else did you tell me?”

“My dear boy,” said Gaius condescendingly, “leave humour to those who are funny. Swing by the studio if you can manage that, and I’ll take the Bane recordings off your hands. Uther wants to release a live album.”

They both sighed. “Oh, and you’ve a guest spot. Just a couple of hours tomorrow night. At the Trinity. I’ll send you the details. You should be able to fit it in, I think, but let me know if not. That little tune of yours, quite something. In case it needs saying, I’m proud of you. Coming into your own, and all that.”

Merlin swallowed hard. “Glad you liked it. I didn’t really mean to do it. It just happened.”

“I look forward to the next time it does. Well done, Merlin. Well done.”

It was the next best thing to a hug. He found himself smiling at the phone as he turned it off. 

“Cat who swallowed the cream this morning, are we?” Arthur pushed him sideways into the window, a little harder than was comfortable. 

“Just talking to Gaius. ‘s nice, is all. Going to be odd being back in London again.”

“Hm. Loud, probably. We’ll need to get in some food for the week. I’ll give you a list. Milk and eggs and bread. Chicken, of course.”

Merlin turned and looked at Arthur, who was thumbing things into his phone even as he spoke. “What?”

“Don’t be weird. You’re staying at mine. No one needs to be subjected to Gaius’ stupid inflatable. And lord knows you can’t afford a London hotel, let’s be real.”

“What?”

“We’ll probably need more toothpaste. And icecream if Gwaine’s staying. Percy’ll have to sleep on the floor, I think. He won’t fit the couch. We’ll have to double up as it is.”

“What?”

“I don’t think Elyan’s taking Galahad. I have to check that.”

“What?”

“Do stop sounding like a broken record. Which bit aren’t you following?”

“Don’t you want some, I don’t know, privacy? A break?”

Arthur snorted, and typed some more things into his phone. “Stop it. Make sure you get the toothpaste that doesn’t taste like ham, remember.”

Morgana gave him a thumbs up from across the aisle. Merlin scowled at her.

“Arthur, c’mon. You can’t – I’m not -”

“No. It’s settled. That’s final. You’re staying with me. I’m sending you the list now. And some money.”

Arthur jabbed at the send button, and Merlin’s phone vibrated angrily in his pocket. 

“Unless – “ Arthur studied his phone with heated intensity. “I’m sorry. I’ve been rude. If there’s someone, I mean, if you’ve got something already set up. You shouldn’t feel obliged to stay with me. I don’t want to get in your way.”

“You are the absolute worst, do you know that? No, of course I don’t have anyone beating down my door, you pegged that right. Just for that, I’m going to try to snore really loudly.”

“Fine,” said Arthur, jabbing at his phone again.

“And I’m going to buy the type of toothpaste that tastes like ham.”

“Fine – no, not fine. Don’t do that.” 

“And I’m going to get Gwaine really drunk so that he sings sea shanties at you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” 

“Boys,” said Morgana loudly from across the aisle. “You’re being very loud. I need to sleep before this afternoon and I’ve sent all my messages. If you don’t let me sleep, I will murder you in yours. Clear?”  
Which reminded him, Morgana would need to be introduced to Rhiannon, properly, sooner rather than later, and straighten out whatever was going on with her dreams, because he quite liked this being friends thing, and would very much prefer not the mortal enemies option. Exhibit A, the way in which she was glaring at them both, right now.

Arthur’s flat was enormous, for London, which was small for most other places, a two double bedder, on the penthouse, thank you to daddy’s money no doubt. No one batted an eye as a good portion of the bus filed off, and up into the Camden apartment block, following Arthur, and another chunk into the apartment block opposite, following Morgana. Or at least, if they did, they weren’t lacking in cool enough to let on. Merlin liked to think that he was not lacking in cool, but it seemed that this was not in fact the case, because he was the only one who had to take a minute to look the flat over, to admire the view from Arthur’s balcony, to wonder if it would be necessary to get a degree in engineering to use his coffee machine, all shiny and well used chrome, and to wonder quite how the piano had made it up to the top floor, if not with the use of magic. 

“Throw your bag in there, Merlin, and hop to it. You lot are in there. C’mon, Merls, you need to get to the shops, I can’t cook anything with beer and baked beans.”

It seemed easier to comply than to argue. Merlin wasn’t very keen on baked beans, he’d eaten too many meals based on them, and he liked chicken, especially if someone else was offering to cook. He tried very hard to not think about anything beyond that, but things kept slipping in, as wilful and slippery as salmon in a stream. Things like the fact that there’d only been one bed in Arthur’s room, he’d counted it, twice. Things like the way in which the bus had left a shadow as it pulled out, and that Uther’s face was still as cadaver like as ever. Whether Morgana, or Lance, had told Gwen about his magic. About theirs. His phone buzzed at him.

Art: are you lost.  
Art: or just incredibly slow.

Merlin: sorry, my lord.  
Merlin: some prat gave me a list of ingredients that are hard to find.

Art: that reminds me, honey. Greek.

Merlin: think I’ll go to the pub instead.

Art: you won’t like what happens next if you do. Spoiler, it involves you being picked up by an ear.

Merlin: got the honey.

Art: did you tell Gwaine to sing? Or is he just being himself.

Merlin: All g. it’s harder to get him to stop than start.

Art: we need bog roll. Also, hurry up.

Merlin: can’t hurry up if you keep asking me for more things.

But he did. There was a tune humming in his head, the industrial freezer hum, and the vibration of the phone, and something else. Something a little light, and domestic, and simple and very G rated. His fingers were itchy with the need to get it down, and he hummed it, as best he could, into his phone, leaving himself a voicemail. He’d have to get it down properly, later. Somehow.

Art: if you don’t come soon you’re sleeping on the floor.

He stared at his phone. This was very much a not good idea. He put his phone in his pocket before it said anything else that made him think about any dangerous things, like Arthur’s magnificent arse, glowing in the yellow honey, a jar of which he’d just bought. Tonight needed to stay G rated, two splendid pals sleeping in the same bed, before a magnificent concert of hard rock, and an hour secret set of evil electronica, the way that purely platonic friends do that kind of thing. He packed the honey away carefully, along with the toilet paper, and all the millions of other things that apparently were necessary for one meal, rather than baked beans. Then, he gave the bags the tiniest of levitations, because really, what’s the point of magic if you can’t use it, and trudged back to the flat, which took all of five minutes, and Arthur still complained when he opened the door. Although the smile that he’d given him, probably by accident, all soft and warm, made up for it. 

“Finally. I thought you’d fallen in the freezer.”

He handed off the bags, and because of the smile, didn’t make them heavy as lead. “This better be worth it, you.”

“Best chicken of your life. Promise.”

“Better be. Or I’m not going on any more quests for weird ingredients for you.”

“There’s nothing on that list that’s weird, you’re just Welsh.”

“Oi!” Merlin said, but only half heartedly. He was a big fan of food which he recognised, after the many and varied feasts below, often with things that probably weren’t meant to be eaten by humans and delivered digestive consequences to boot, but it was too hard to explain all of that, and he probably wasn’t meant to. “I only go on quests when destiny commands it. I hardly think this qualifies.”

“Does too. Destiny and chicken, natural partners.” Arthur grinned at him again, all crooked teeth, and self assurance and Merlin felt his little heart traitoriously flutter. 

“I’m just saying, it’d better be good.”

Arthur smiled again, yet a different one to add to Merlin’s Guide to Arthur’s Smiles. “It will be.” 

Then he strode off confidently to the kitchen, leaving Merlin to either edge his way into the very occupied couch of gaming enthusiasts, for which, hard pass, listen to Gwaine singing mournful sea  
shanties at the piano, punctuated with their shouts, or count on the rest of the flat being distracted, and try to get the song down. In Arthur’s room. Put like that, there wasn’t really a choice.  
Arthur’s room was snug, and cosy. The Pendragon red bedspread seemed less boastful, and more warm, glowing. It was knitted and soft, made by hand, rather than loom, and worn thin in parts, well used. There was a photo of a much younger Uther, holding the hand of a much much younger Arthur. Arthur was beaming with joy, the seaside behind him, sand on his short pants, and his hair tousled in the wind. Uther was not quite as grim as the death mask he’d just seen on the bus. Determined. There was a photo of a blonde haired woman in her twenties, Uther with the smile he’d just seen on Arthur’s face, the soft warm one, not the cocky self assured one. It was a good look on Uther. A photo of Arthur, bookended by Lance, and Gwen, and the brave smile, the one that didn’t make it to the eyes. Books on the shelves, and a record player and vinyls, but no time to investigate. The bed was a bed, and not a huge one at that. He wasn’t thinking about that now. Aithusa stayed asleep as he noodled on the tune, headphones on, feeling it out, stretching it into something that echoed that joy, that soft warmth, that confidence of being in love, and hoping for a return. Something worthy. He got it half way there before Gwaine’s head appeared around the door, with a message that must have been about dinner, because he was gone before the headphones were off, 

The chicken was good. He’d still no idea how all the things had come together to make it, the coconut, and the basil, and the honey, and the chilli but it was good, and he had seconds, only half to make Arthur happy, and the other half for him, and there was no space for thirds, which was as well, as Percy’d taken and consumed the rest. Then taken all the plates to the sink, and guarded the cleaning up jealously, like a dragon with a hoard. 

“Amuse me with music, then,” Percy slung over his shoulder at the rest of them, at the token protests. “Anyone but Gwaine. If I have to listen to drunken sailors for one more minute, someone’s going overboard. No Bane stuff either. I need a break, or at least my ears do. Just for one night.”

Merlin found the eyes of the room upon him. Galahad had paused the cars crashing on screen, and craned his head back over the sofa the better to do it, Gwaine fingering the black keys of the upright, and Arthur, leaning back against a wall, each eyeing him off in their own ways. He was concerned. 

“You piked at Brighton,” said Galahad, musingly. “You’re never on stage. I think, Merlin, you owe us a tune.”

“I don’t think anyone needs to be tortured by my voice,” said Merlin, stepping back towards the bedroom. “Wouldn’t know where to start. I told you.”

“Give us a sea shanty,” called Gwaine. “Something sad. Can’t go wrong with that.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “What are you afraid of? It’s just us. Give us a song, Merls.”

Merlin swallowed. Something sad. Something as far removed from EDM as he could. Something, preferably, in a language that no one else in the room would understand. That, he could do. “This is for Gwen. Because she’s nice, and you lot aren’t.”

Planted his feet, solid as oak. Took a deep breath, and looked at Gwaine, who was encouraging, hand gestures and all, and Arthur, who was being unhelpfully soft and warm again, and sang the saddest sweet song in Welsh that he could remember, and all the verses of it he knew, Gwen Lliw'r Lili, the one about wishing that your love, fair as the lily would come back to you again, so that you could still court them.

He watched Gwaine cry, silently, tears down the cheek, not bothering to wipe at them. He watched Percy, dripping soap on the floor, and Galahad put the controller down, and pick up his phone. But mostly he watched Arthur, watching him. He let the last note end before his lungs gave out, solid, and true. 

The silence tingled in his fingers. Arthur’s lips were parted, and Merlin remembered. His mouth was dry.

“Gwen loves it,” Galahad said, and he jumped. “Loves it. Says she’s not surprised.”

“What’d mean,” said Percy, turning back to the sink, and setting the plate down. “Didn’t sound like what Gwaine was singing.”

“Oh,” said Merlin, “just, you know, generic sad things. The Welsh like that.”

Arthur was still watching him. 

“You lovely, lovely, man, you,” said Gwaine, moving as swift as a fish across the flat, and folding his arms about Merlin, the better to sob onto his shoulder. “look at what you’ve done to me, you terrible thing. I’m a wreck, now, so I am. And in front of the lads.”

The lads shrugged and went back to what they were doing. Arthur seized the controller from the sofa, where Galahad had foolishly left it. “Pour him out one, would you? By the desk. Hidden talents, Merls. Hidden.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” Said Merlin, complying, but only so as he could pour himself one. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” said Arthur, driving his ridiculous dune buggy off a cliff with the kind of miracle landing that enables one to drive on incredibly fast without dying, and avoiding all his mortal enemies, the in game indestructible trees. 

Merlin decided to leave that one alone, and pushed Gwaine out onto the balcony, still wiping his face with the base of his shirt. 

“Cheers, then,” said Gwaine, sculling it in one go. 

Merlin sipped his, and felt the burn. Shut the balcony door behind them. “A year’s nothing. Orpheus had to go into the underworld for his. I’ve been there, and I don’t know that you’d come back the same.”

“It’d be worth it, though. How could he do that to me, Merlin? Come back to me, in such a way, that I couldn’t keep him? A year’s nothing, but it’s going to drive me mad, the thought of it. The thought of him, down there? He’ll not be the same. He’s already not. My Simon, he’d never have sung in public like that. Like it was nothing. He’s been gone a year already, what’ll he be when he comes back to me? If he does?”

Merlin took another sip, and winced, feeling the fire up behind his eyeballs. “You can’t walk that path for him. All you can do is walk your own.”

“Don’t you dare trot out a platitude to me now. Not after you’ve made me cry so. He’s dead, Simon’s dead, and I’d said my farewells. I’d said them, and I did my time mourning. Do you mind, how we met? I walked myself back from the cliff. And here am I at it again. Looking over it for a year.”

Merlin took another, longer, drink, finishing it. This one burnt all the way down to his stomach. The tinny noise of the game techno played on in the background, and he could see, even if he didn’t try, Arthur and Galahad pushing each other about on the sofa for the controller. 

“You’ll bear it, because you said to him that you would, no matter what he’s calling himself now. And you’ll come to me, if it’s too much, and I’ll help you. Me or Lance, or Morgana. And if it’s really too much, and you’re prepared to pay the price, I’ll go with you and we’ll find him, and I’ll help you cut the deal with her below, so you’re not too badly burnt. But I’d try to wait it out, if you can. A year’s a small price to pay, compared to some that she seeks.” 

Gwaine shivered. “I need another drink.” 

“Do we have a compact, Gwaine Summers?” 

“Aye, we do. I need another drink, and I’ll not do anything stupid in that line without a pair of idiots beside me.”

Merlin laughed, a little, but without humour. “A year’s not that long, Gwaine. It’s a month already, almost. It’ll be done before you know it, and we’ll keep you busy in the meantime. Go now and crash cars into one another, or whatever it is those pair of idiots inside are doing. I have to call Morgana and explain I don’t know how to make French toast.”

“I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t. Arthur’ll make it for you, if you bat your eyelashes at him the way you’ve been doing. Or you could test his resolve, if you do a bit more than that.”

Merlin opened the door, and pushed Gwaine through it. 

“Can I have keys, please? I have to get more bacon, I forgot.”

Arthur threw them at him without looking behind him, which Merlin caught, accidentally. “If I crash now, it’s your fault.”

Merlin escaped. The streets were alive and noisy, with people living their lives. Flashes of colour from auras here are there, charms for luck, or love, or fame, or money, smears of yellow green, of minor curses, and Merlin did, as always, what he could, to ameliorate them. The air was warm and promised more warmth, and he was going to sleep in the same bed as Arthur.

There were couples, strolling the aisles of the supermarket. Some were holding hands, and looking contented with their lot, absently filling their trolleys. Some were snapping at each other, and looking at their phones. Then they’d go home, no doubt, and put away the shopping, and go to sleep in the same bed. Just as he was going to do. With Arthur.

Bacon was procured. It felt very ordinary, opening Arthur’s door, like he’d done it many times before, rather than never. Almost too easy. 

Gwaine was playing now, some sort of shooting thing, with what was probably meant to be encouragement from the lads, watch out, he’s round there, no, aim at this chest, you pillock, not his feet, but can’t have been. Now he had a new smile to add to the list, the one that he was going to dub the ‘hi honey, you’re home’ one. If he’d been in a Victorian drama, he would have clutched dramatically at his chest, the way it was beating at that little domesticity, but he wasn’t, and so he carefully put the bacon away in the bottom left drawer of the fridge, because that was where bacon went. 

Then, he went and cleaned his teeth, and put himself to bed. At some point during the night, the bed became occupied by a second person, but Merlin did not notice, not until morning, when Arthur woke him abruptly, by throwing off all the covers, and pushing him out of it.

“Let’s be having you, lazy daisy!” Arthur said encouragingly. 

“If you tell me that we have to jog, I will kill you. You won’t see me coming. Swift in the night like a ninja,” said Merlin, grumbling his way out of bed, and trying not to notice Arthur’s disarmingly lovely scruffy hair and stubble.

“Not today. Morgana’s coming for breakfast and bringing her lot. Remember?”

“I didn’t accept the bet, remember?”

Arthur shrugged, and Merlin forced his eyes up from his bare chest. It was definitely not G-rated to note that Arthur’s chest hair matched the colour on his head, and that his nipples were the same colour as his lips. “Doesn’t really matter to Morgana. She doesn’t play by the rules. Besides, I like French toast, and you need fattening up, anyway, look at you, fading away to nothing. No time to waste, they’ll be here in half an hour.”

Merlin looked down at his stomach suspiciously. It was still there. Arthur laughed, and threw a shirt at him.

With most of the younger end of Bane, the flat was no longer quite as expansive, nor quite so quiet. French toast turned out to be quite good fun to make, and sticky to eat the way the Pendragons liked it, all syrup or lemon sugared. All the bacon was eaten, and Merlin did not regret the amount he ate in the slightest.

Morgana excused herself to take a call, at one point, and returned looking grim. “Merlin, you’ll be delighted to know you have the day to yourself, because Uther’s asked for Gaius today. The rest of you, with me.”

“I thought we were at Wembley tonight,” said Percival. “I was looking forward to it. Told me mam and all.”

Morgana shook her head, back stiff. “Our numbers weren’t enough to hold the night, it’s gone to someone else. Agravaine’s pulled a favour, and you’re doing an acoustic set.”

Arthur groaned. “The actual worst. Dad’s voice won’t hold it. Where?”

Morgana winced. “Before I tell you, I want to remind you that I’m your favourite sister, and that I have information that you actually want. Emrys is playing tonight, an hour set, and at a place only I know. So, you know, don’t shoot the messenger.”

Arthur pushed himself back from the table. “It’s the Albert, isn’t it? We have to sit there and look serious while Dad pretends to be a classical type. It’s the Albert.”

Morgana nodded. “But then, you’ll have Emrys to look forward to. And you only get your pudding if you eat your meat.”

“You’re not my favourite sister. You’re an evil witch.”

“I can be two things at once,” said Morgana smugly. “And it’s not like you really have a choice. So you might as well accept it. Lie back and think of Emrys, as it were.”

“I think,” said Lance, “that I’m going to send Arthur the details anyway. Because you might just forget on purpose, and I think that Arthur’s earnt his pudding already. Don’t you, Gwen?”

“Mm,” said Gwen. “I think I need more French toast if I have to look out the acoustics. It’s been forever. It’s going to be awful. More notice next time Morgana.”

“Tell that to Aggro and Uther,” said Morgana, licking her fingers. “I can only do so much. Cars are coming at midday, you lot. Push on.”

Nine people cleaning up took much less time than five, and the flat cleared as if by magic. There was a moment, by the door, as Arthur held it open. It was almost a hug, but Morgana turned at exactly the wrong moment, and Arthur’s arms, if they had been coming in for a hug, turned instead into manly hands on Merlin’s shoulders. “Don’t forget to lock up, if you go out. There’s good coffee at the Battered Ram, one street over. Help yourself to whatever.”

Merlin was left alone in Arthur’s flat. 

He spent an enjoyable hour investigating Arthur’s books, and vinyls, before he felt a little bit too voyeuristic. He didn’t want to be doing this without Arthur. He wanted the box set commentary, he wanted to be told why Auden’s poetry spoke to Arthur personally, and not to theorise, he wanted to know whether the Pink Floyd purchase came in his teens, or his twenties, and exactly when it was in his book buying that he’d started playing music, instead of reading about it. It was like scratching an itch, and knowing that there was a steroid cream available, just out of reach. 

The Battered Ram was crowded and noisy, and played alt-rock music. The coffee was toasted in taste, and Merlin liked it. He wondered whether there was a particular table, a particular corner that was Arthur’s, when he was here, but he hadn’t been given that part of the story. 

Letting himself back into the flat, he’d expected the feeling of following Arthur’s ghost to be worse, but it dissipated. The piano was in tune, he discovered, which had been impossible to tell last night through Gwaine’s tinkerings. His fingers flew, until they cramped, but it was enough to finish the music he’d been half through the night previously, and he laid it down. It was ready.  
He took another nap, just because. Arthur’s body had been on that side, and so he lay there. If he pressed his head to the pillow, he could imagine he still was. He took another cold shower, oatmeal soap, because he didn’t know what would happen if he used Arthur’s. Then it was time for him to prepare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by  
> Gwen Lliw'r Lili (traditional, as sung by Gwilym Bowen Rhys)  
> Another Brick in the Wall (Pink Floyd)  
> Penny Lane (Beatles)  
> Heart Shaped Box (Nirvana Unplugged)


	13. Remembering how to swim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which  
> Mordred gets a new job;  
> Merlin and Arthur take a shower; and  
> Rhiannon is a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the changes to the rating and the tags. 
> 
> Arthur and Merlin both do some things in this chapter that they really would very much want to do, just not necessarily in this kind of situation. Skip this chapter if you would prefer not to read anything dubcon or that mentions drug use, and you want to get back to the action, which will be coming again next chapter.

Art: shit  
M: what?  
Art: He was shit. It was shit.  
M: what  
Art: Bane. Uther. How much have you been tweaking the sound when we play? The sound was nothing like what it was on the road. He’s livid.  
M: Um. A bit.  
Art: Horse and Chain. Now.  
M: out already sorry.  
Art: Yeah right you are. Have all the fun I’m not having. Say hi to Gwaine  
M: ? thought he was with you  
Art: No. Call him  
M: You call him. Busy doing a thing for Gaius. Probably back tomorrow don’t wait up.  
Art: K  
M: You okay?

Merlin stared at the phone, willing a response, which did not come. Slipped the phone away. As requested, the memory sticks bearing each and every Bane concert were still being chewed down by KIL, with contented murmurs as he digested. Aithusa was quietly humming as she charged, properly, in a corner. He cued up the recordings he’d managed of that evening, the one after, and Aithusa grumbled a little at the disturbance, and he soothed her back into sleep. 

Without any tinkerings, it was unsmoothed, unbalanced, rough around the edges, but it wasn’t shit. It was Kai’s squeezebox scraping and the edges, all nostalgic for a time that never was. It was Morgana and Gwen’s voices intertwined with his, singing of blackbirds and hedges. It was Gwaine’s trumpet wrestling with sadness and winning it over from death and beyond, it was Leon’s table drumming, quietly providing the heartbeat to Elyan’s guitar strumming, Percy plucking pieces of copper from his bass, and Lance above like pieces of gold, with Arthur’s twining them all together, like a solid rope. Then it dissolved into mist, the voices laughing. His voice calling Arthur a cabbage for stopping, low and amused, and Arthur loudly telling him, telling them all, it was time to call it a night, bed. It was the work of a moment to add it to the message. That had happened because of Arthur, because of Arthur leading them through it. That had come together because of Arthur. If Uther couldn’t lead them, Arthur certainly could. If he would choose to.

Aithusa finished her routine. KIL spat up his end process message and deigned to allow Merlin to extract the final memory stick. Then a whisper for Merlin, a half growl in his head:

“You performed his first trial adequately. Not long now, before he faces his second. He must understand it, for himself, you cannot do this for him.”

“Do what, you cryptic electronic beast?” Merlin said, kicking the table for good measure.

“You must show him what it is to be a salmon, an otter, a body, alive, mortal. Show him.”

KIL shut down again before giving him anything more useful than a list of things that swam, and Merlin kicked the desk again, this time stubbing his toe. Aithusa chirped, turn me off, Merlin. Pick me up, Merlin. You’ll be late, Merlin. Fuck my life, Merlin, Merlin thought. Second trial. The first would have been the night he’d worn her mask, hunted Arthur through the crowd, and he didn’t need to remember the rest, because it still throbbed under his skin, in his blood, fire. Which would mean the second would be what? He knew he knew this. He just couldn’t quite remember it. The year, the centuries, with Rhiannon had brought trials after trials, some of them pleasant, some of them less so, but all of them with a purpose. What was she playing at now? He had a bad feeling about this, and no time to think. He could feel Rhiannon waiting, tapping her ivory talons, her fingernails, against the marble table in her throne room. Quicker, Merlin. Keep up.

The club was heaving. Merlin had to edge his way back, bony edging himself to the stage, where a broad shoulder woman held him by his arms, looking him over. Drawing something on his forehead, his cheeks, about his eyebrows, patterns he couldn’t make out, before hoisting him up the steps to the stage, into the arms of another, dark skinned man, who rolled his sleeves all the way up, allowing him to move Aithusa to enable this to happen, bared his arms, saving only his thin leather bracelet, and tracing complex designs about them. Ivy, perhaps. Or snakes. Something he couldn’t quite see, but that wasn’t, apparently the point, for he finally felt the weight of Rhiannon’s mantle start to slip down. He held it at bay long enough to settle Aithusa secure on the table, make sure she understood her confines, the exits, and most importantly, the prohibitions, and then he let it cover him wholly. 

The room was dark, deep sea dark, and he could feel the music inside welling from the same place, and he let it out over the house beat the last had left thumping for him, took it low and slow, swells of it, and felt the crowd respond. He could feel them, the life of them, jostling for position, sandwiched together, flanked together like so many sardines, banked together for safety, for the swell of it, like salmon. Merlin laughed, with the microphone off. Cunning old dragon, like salmon together in a run, all single minded in their goal, and together in it by happenstance, by destiny, leaping the rocks, up the press of the water. He let shiny brightness flicker through, just a run of it, here and there, light piercing through the deep, and touching the silver flanks, ripping out, passing it up and alone. Leaping loops, repeated, rising like nearing thunder. Like water hitting the rocks, harsh crashing. Only the strongest surviving the passage and making it through to the build of the melody, he’d stolen that, blackbird, from the sessions, of no matter, it was the catch that had made it through. No matter, it had been allowed in, and now he’d let it build, and now it had to have its way, all the way to the drop, the drop. 

He cut the melody cold, the salmons’ bodies fading, and only the beat, the river, remaining. He let that work, eight bars, watching the crowd, their feet moving, their heads hanging down with it. Then he brought in what he’d meant for them all along, the one that come out of all that sweet domesticity, the new day breaking, the joyous major notes, at first small, the breakfast brought to one in bed, still creased by the pillow, the soft rub of hair against the cheek, skin against skin, those little moments. Then, the build, of the racing heart, the sweetness of finding that particular, that perfect fit, the hand in glove, and sharing the joy of it, the high headiness of it, all treble, no bass, so happy, so ecstatic even if, perhaps because, it would not last. 

Then, there was someone else setting up by him, Alator, and his time was up. He reluctantly let that joyous set wash into the black, as his successor thrummed insistent beats, discordant on purpose against his sweetness. Aithusa came free quickly, and he found the back of house, overly bright. 

Strangely, by the bank of lockers, Mordred was lurking, and it took a second for Merlin to recognise him through Rhiannon’s mantle, for with it, Mordred appeared to be glowing, all silvery white innocence, all big smiled. The kind of thing he’d seen about children, and the most harmless of the creatures he’d met below, the ones with whom he didn’t have to be careful. Merlin wondered, briefly, whether that was how he’d been, before that year. What he’d look like, if he looked at himself now. Mordred stood, still, all white aura, and expectancy. Merlin found himself handing Aithusa to him like a baby, instead of asking very sensible questions about how and why Mordred was backstage in yet another venue, in yet another city, and Mordred secured her safely in a locker, giving Merlin the tiny key like a talisman.

“I loved that,” Mordred was saying, “Someday, that’s going to be me. You’ve no idea how much I think of your music. It’s amazing, Emrys, it sings in my blood like, I don’t know, moonlight. Like silver. And tomorrow, I’m going to go to work, in a stupid office, and enter stupid numbers, and my head’ll be full of this. Someday, though, I’m going to do this, not just listen to it.”  
Merlin slipped the key into his back pocket, shrugging. “Why wait until someday, then,” he found himself saying, and although the voice was his, he hadn’t intended the words, thanks Rhiannon. “Bane can use another sound crew, I hear, after tonight. And if they can’t use us, then they can always use another pair of hands. Don’t let on to Bane, to Uther, that this is what you want, he wouldn’t understand. I’d be out of a job. Come on the tour, see what you think, and I’ll teach you what I can. Do we have a compact?”

Mordred shook his hand with excessive fervour. “Yeah we do. This is brilliant. You won’t regret it, Emrys.”

“Merlin. Remember.”

“Yeah. Merlin. ‘s going to be great.”

They exchanged numbers, Mordred all thumbs into his phone, and having to try twice, before he ran off down the passage. Merlin wondered, briefly, what on earth lady destiny thought she was playing at, and, of equal concern, what Morgana would think of Mordred. Then he went in search of Arthur. 

The cacophony had resolved itself, but the lighting no better in the club, and then Merlin’s eyes picked out the patterns, patterns on his own arms, glowing to life, bright in sickly fluoro green and yellow, orange, and blue and pink, and understands. He let the floor carry him where it would, too crowded to do more, and let Rhiannon have her way, which was apparently, to deposit him at Arthur’s feet, eyes closed, smeared sign of the fish in purple on his forehead, blue ripples on his cheeks, hair on end, and a bright, fixed grin, all teeth, body surrendered, this time, to the music, all fluid ecstatic, and sometimes, he really didn’t care for Rhiannon very much at all. Was her mantle still on him? In the crowd, he couldn’t tell, and there wasn’t a soul he could ask, beyond Arthur, and his elsewhere grin, and half opened eyes.

“You’re here,” he shouted with the music at Merlin.

“Where else would I be?” said Merlin, more a statement than anything else.

“You could be anywhere. You could be anywhere else. But you’re here. I never know where you are. You keep leaving me.”

“I keep leaving you? I do?” said Merlin, suddenly possessed of an incredible sadness, like a rip tugging at his feet, and he told it to fuck off. It was not his concern, Rhiannon, to be burdened with the knowledge and feelings of past lives and deaths, no matter how meaningful, when he was trying to live this one. To let Arthur live this one.

Arthur moved closer, more insistent. “You can’t leave me now. I won’t let you.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you, Arthur.” 

“Then dance with me,” said Arthur. “I’m dancing with you.”

“I already am, Arthur,” said Merlin, and he was, they were dancing, two bodies inhabiting roughly the same space, arms, and legs, and bodies touching and intertwined. 

Arthur’s eyes slipped closed again, trusting, surrendering to it in the dark, the light flashing the symbols on their skin bright, and fading, and away again. Heat emanating in waves from Arthur, almost visible, ripping the black water of the club with it. It could have been a minute, or an hour, they danced, and he would have danced as long as long as the drug lasted, as Arthur willed, and counted himself lucky for it, were it not for the smoke. Smoke first, the same white as the smoke machine, but with the acrid smell to it of something else, and the lights going out, even the green exit sign. A press of bodies, moving without rhythm, panicked with it, voices calling alarm without words. Merlin came back to himself. This, he knew. He silenced the crowd’s noise, the music still playing, and held his voice steady, amplified. Cast a werelight, blue and bright and unmistakeable in the dark, and sent it to the door. 

“Fire exit, hold someone’s hand, and follow the light. Keep your heads.” 

Then, he searched. A fuse box, shorted. In the back. Something about it? Something yellow, and slimy, ready to spread, with little flames to it, hungry. No matter. He held the werelight steady, as he cast a bubble about it, sending the oxygen out, extinguishing the flames, and stopping the spread, full of energy from the crowd, nothing easier, all the energy in the world to spare and then some, Arthur’s hand warm in his. The crowd filtered out of the fire exit, and the chatter dissipated, as they dispersed into the night, did you see that, what was that? He figured one last strange thing for the night would go unmissed, and called Aithusa to him.

Arthur was staring into the black night around the club, watching the crowd. “Everyone leaves me. Don’t leave me.”

Merlin settled Aithusa under one arm, thankful she’d decided to be light. Held Arthur’s hand, tight enough, and then let it go. 

“I’m calling us an uber. I’m not going anywhere,” said Merlin. “Let’s get you home.”

Arthur closed his eyes again. “I miss the music.”

By the time the uber arrived, Arthur was half asleep, hot to the touch, on Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin was possessed of a savage rage against anyone who’d done this to Arthur, for it wasn’t Rhiannon, and she’d have his hide for it. He had a fair suspicion. Confirmed, as Percy looked apologetic at him from the sofa, as Merlin lugged Arthur, grinning once more with half lidded eyes, across the threshold. 

“It were only half a tab,” said Percy, in a half defensive tone. “You didn’t see him after. He were a right state. Just wanted to see him happy. Works fine for me. He didn’t have to take it.”

If Arthur had been properly awake, Merlin would have had no compunction about launching into a diatribe about the ethics of leaving a mate down a rabbit hole without a map, or a labyrinth without a guide, or at the very least on the town without a watcher, but he wasn’t, and he suspected that in the morning he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, so far as ethics went and so he didn’t. Apparently, he was carrying a sufficient overlay of menace dialled up by Rhiannon’s mantle, even without the words for Percy, all broad shoulders and brawn of him, slunk back down the sofa, like a guilty dog. 

“I’m putting him to bed. Don’t you wake us up.”

Percy grunted in agreement from the shelter of the couch. Arthur, deposited on the bed, watched Merlin shut the door, and his eyes were half lidded again. It was worth a shot. “Swefe nu,” whispered Merlin, and the spell ran true, but slipped off Arthur like water, and he could hear, somewhere, Rhiannon laughing, and her voice in his head, reminding him that he made a bargain, that he was hers, by it, to use for her purpose, and a bright lash of pain across his nerves, to remind him of her displeasure, and Merlin shuddered. Merlin tried again, for surely a more awake Arthur would be less dangerous, to Merlin at least, than one half asleep. “Awaecen,” he whispered, but Rhiannon laughed again. “He burns, Merlin. Without you, he burns.”

Arthur in the shower was as slippery as a fish, and very happy to be there, turning his head up into the stream of it, laughing into the water, drinking it, shaking his head like some wild furred thing, pulling Merlin in after him, into the wetness, like another fish, to share the joy. Merlin tried not to encourage him, he very much did, but Arthur, he had to concede, did have more muscle on him, and at a certain point, he gave up, and stripped down, for there was no great reason that his clothes needed to follow suit. Arthur’s eyes were still very bright, and he wondered what Arthur saw, what Rhiannon was having him see. Whatever it was, Arthur was glad for it, irrepressible in his joy, in the expression of his joy, with certain parts of Arthur finding themselves more irrepressible than others, and Merlin had to remind himself, severely, that Arthur not being quite there should not be taken advantage of, no matter how Arthur’s hands decided to roam. 

No matter how hard he himself Merlin was feeling, or how nicely Arthur’s hands felt on his own arms, and chest, and buttocks, and such, no matter how little Arthur had decided to hold back, not that Merlin holding Arthur back was really working, as it were, because interested bits of Arthur were pressing up against interested parts of Merlin. Rhiannon was the worst trickster in the pantheon to have put this together, an Arthur awake and alive to the joys of the body, and a Merlin unable, by his own self imposed rules to do anything about it, but however, he cut it, he had offered himself to Rhiannon, and he’d been stupid about it, and there was nothing he could do about it but hope she wasn’t going to use him for worse, and get out of the shower, which he could not quite do, not with Arthur’s hands on him like they were, burning points of warmth. 

There was a point at which Arthur held Merlin against his cold shower wall, hot skin, and slippery against him, Merlin’s breath hard in his throat, where Merlin’s resolve ran very thin indeed, so thin that one more push, one more wriggle by Arthur would have finished him off altogether, but luckily the cold tap was right there. Arthur laughed suddenly as it hit him, and ground himself with insistent pressure, waves of motion so that Merlin forgot, and pushed Merlin’s chin up with his nose, the better to lick the cold water from it, and in one shudder, without breath, Merlin was gone. And Arthur did not notice, or if he did, did not care, not stopping, all hot skin and sensation, cold water stinging the nerves.

Once Merlin caught his breath, he fumbled the taps off. The towel came to his hand, and he towelled Arthur’s head carefully, and his own less so, wiping off the remnants of the paint. Arthur watching, waiting, uncomprehending. He thought about it, and wedged toothpaste on brushes, and shoved one at Arthur, who complied, watching him in the mirror. After, Arthur allowed himself to be pushed into bed, and Merlin turned the lights off. 

“We’re going to talk,” whispered Merlin, and willed his voice steady, “tomorrow.”

Arthur yawned, and pulled him close. “Is it tomorrow yet? It’s always jam tomorrow.”

It would be fine, Merlin told himself, Arthur was sleeping. Merlin would be fine. Arthur would be fine. However, Arthur asleep and under the influence still was a jumble of limbs, all of which wanted to touch Merlin, and tumble him under beneath the waves, not really ready for sleep, but more play, fur on fur, twining them about like pieces of rope. All salt sea tasting, when he licked into Merlin’s mouth, playful nips, again, at Merlin’s chin, wrestling of Merlin safely down beneath him, the better to nuzzle up into his neck, and with no cold tap to temper Arthur’s heat. 

“I always thought you’d taste of porridge,” he slurred against Merlin’s neck, nose cold, before licking it again, and pulling Merlin on top, the better to hold him steady as he did, and then tumbling him back under again, and when Merlin finally slept, he dreamt of otters, brown fur, twisting and turning over each other in ripping knots, forming and dissolving, and him one, and Arthur the other, set only on play, only on play, never ending play.

In the afternoon, when Merlin woke, energy faded, Arthur’s face was pressed into the pillow, mouth open, innocent, creases on his cheek, smiling still, skin cooler to the touch. Merlin slipped from the sheets, and pulled his pants on silently. The flat was quite quiet still, like the aftermath of a storm, trees laid bare, bushes flattened. 

He did not have it within him to fathom the workings of the very expensive looking coffee machine, and instead asked it nicely, without much thought, and it delivered. Two shots, and he drank them both, hot and dark and rich brown on his tongue. Either Rhiannon was well pleased or he’d bought good beans for Arthur, or perhaps both. He asked again, and this time, it produced two with frothed milk. Arthur’s machine didn’t have that attachment, and he decided that it was exceedingly unlikely that Arthur would notice today, or that, given the rest of the difficult conversations they needed to have, it would matter in the scheme of things. 

He fried bacon, and eggs, and ate, and let the salt coax himself back to the surface. Finally, he showered again, tracing the light bruising Arthur had left on his waist, on his wrists, the bites on his shoulders, his chin, his neck, the little scratches on his arse, his back, and all the places where he was sticky, washing himself clean, but the slightly sick feeling in his gut would not leave. Stretching his muscles, under the flow, and they would not quite relax. He’d lost count of the times Arthur had tipped him over the edge, all bright eyed and gasping and watching to make sure Merlin fell, and never falling himself, pushing him back from it, intent only on the delight he was taking in ensuring Merlin fell. And that was a lie, too, for his memory threw them all back at him, one by one, bright as a phoenix’s fire, and easy enough to remember, and unforgettable in it. 

He wondered what, if anything, Arthur would remember. What he would say if he did. Then he took the coffee into Arthur’s bedroom, and lay down to sleep beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by  
> Sunlight (The Magician)  
> Something Good '08 (High Contrast) (Utah Saints)  
> Sweet Disposition (The Temper Trap)  
> Earth (K-391)  
> Moaner (Underworld)


	14. Come hear the noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's not speaking to Merlin.   
> Mordred's signed on as general dogsbody and sound crew apprentice.  
> Merlin doesn't want to look too hard at himself in the mirror, or at anyone else, for that matter. He wants out.

There was a bird outside, or perhaps two or three, all being loud, and all telling Merlin that he was late. He was very late, and he would be very sorry, and Rhiannon would not be pleased. His eyelids were sticky, and his mouth dry. When he finally made it to the state of being awake, he found that the flat was quiet, the coffee cups were gone and so was Arthur. Out of bed, and into the living room, the space was tidy and clean, bedding stowed and when he checked, the spare room too. His skin prickled, just a little. 

The bags were gone. Everything. Everyone was gone, except for Merlin, and he didn’t feel quite all there either. His stomach turned over.

There was no message on his phone from Arthur, he checked it twice. No little text reminding him to grab the toothpaste, the one that didn’t taste of ham, or the diet t-shirts from the dryer. No snarky quip about saving him the window seat to ensure that he could scare all the small children. No acrimonious reproach for everything that had happened the night before, although, to be fair he couldn’t quite even imagine how he’d write a text about that. Perhaps lots of emojis. Not even a fuck you Merlin. He felt he deserved at least a fuck you. 

There were, however, two other messages, Morgana and Mordred respectively. He figured it was probably more urgent to read Morgana’s, given, well, everything. There was a place, the corner of Castle & Whittington, 8pm, bus leaving. It was 6.50 now. Great. Mordred’s was a little more wordy, what should he bring, what was he going to do, where did he need to be, how grateful he was, and so on and so forth. He forwarded Morgana’s message, and hoped Mordred was capable enough to figure out the rest. There was a white buzz happening where his thoughts needed to be, and it was 6.58. 

He packed his bag mechanically. Grabbed the toothbrush, and the non-ham toothpaste which Arthur had, as his panicked self predicted, forgotten, and the shirts out of the dryer and stuck the bed sheets in the laundry bin where they would just have to fester awaiting Arthur’s return. Took the rubbish out. 7.23.

Perhaps, if he just went back to bed, he thought looking at the stripped mattress, everything would reset, the last 24 hours. He could try again, and Rhiannon would be kind this time. He would have gone with the Bane to the Albert, and somehow, anyhow, fixed it, fixed the sound, some sort of magical voder. Autotuned Uther’s voice with some sort of bippity boppity boo, and hoped he wouldn’t notice. Taken the tab for Arthur. Something, anything, other than that which had lead them to this position, him standing in an empty flat, stealing one of Arthur’s stupidly expensive red silk scarves and wrapping it about his neck to hide the marks that Arthur had left from just about everybody, but most particularly from Arthur. 7.45.

His bag was light, Aithusa was heavy and he had just enough energy to flick himself there, no time, 7.50 and hope that no one noticed. There was the bus, check. On the corner, Mordred, looking barely twenty one, all innocence like a dark curly headed faun, purple hazed, bag across his back, violin case under his arm for reasons that were probably clear to Mordred and were not of interest in this particular moment for Merlin. Morgana, phone in hand, harried and yet still glamorous in her usual black, all flowing black curls and sharp eyebrows looking at him with a puzzled expression, and on the bus, a flash of blond hair, turning away from the window. 

He thought as hard as he could at the bus, words of apology. Of it’s all going to be alright, if it can be. Puts on his game face, the one with the ridiculously large grin, like he’s in love with the whole world, instead of just Arthur, and is delighted to be a part of it, and presents himself for combat, or at least, explaining to Morgana, who has her own standard smile on, the one with all the teeth and charm and is ever so slightly terrifying in its perfection. He’s appropriately scared.

Then Mordred’s asking him what’s wrong. Which would be fine, save that he’s doing it without vocalising, even the slightest, which is a nifty trick, one that Merlin’s not terribly happy about. Game face falters a little bit, and his dimples, yes, he knows he has them, disappear. 

“Stop it,” he says, the same way, because he’s polite and doesn’t want to disturb Morgana.

“Stop what,” says Morgana, and she doesn’t lose any ounce of terrifyingness in the saying of it, and Merlin looks at her, hard. 

“Both of you,” he says, with actual words, because it appears he doesn’t have to be polite anymore. “Out of my head.”

“Think quieter then,” says Morgana, raising an imperious eyebrow and casting it on them both. Mordred now looks even more intrigued than terrified, which would have troubled Merlin more, had he not just lived through the last 24 hours, and run out of fucks to give. 

“Not possible. This is Mordred. He’s going to help.”

Morgana raised the eyebrow higher than even Gaius could manage. 

“I can play the,” - says Mordred brightly, and appears to be one second away from getting it out and demonstrating. Merlin hadn’t even thought to tell him not to try. 

“No.” says Morgana, turning away. “You can help the stage crew. Merlin, he’s your problem. Both of you, on the bus. A word, Merlin? If you, of course, have the time. I myself have buckets of it, as you can imagine.”

Merlin threw his bag at Mordred, hoping that at least he could manage to get it all in the undercarriage without incident, and turned back. The smiles were gone.

“Many things I would like to say to you, but we’ve only time for one,” said Morgana. “The others can be covered under the general heading of you have many explanations to give. Uther’s out for blood. Don’t let it be yours.” 

Merlin looked at the bus, but the only face now looking down was Mordred, all excited for his big adventure, face as wide and clean as a plate. The yellow green lines of force still warped about it, but he couldn’t tell whether the feeling, the unsettled one, was the same. Or whether it was just him and the last 24 hours. “Just so you know –“

“No, no time. Bus.” 

The birds are cawing, somewhere, out of eyesight. He gets on the bus. Tal tips his cap to him, and Merlin smiles, one last smile before he turns to meet his destiny. 

Uther, not Arthur, is staring at him from the front seat, staring in a way which makes Merlin remember, suddenly, how the non bed parts of the last 24 hours had gone down, and that Uther probably wants to rethink his sound crew, is probably looking for any good reason to kick him off, or just, you know, kick him, and today’s really not the day to test things. He’s also blocking the aisle. Uther’s a big man, in so many ways, and Merlin’s got no choice but to wait it out. Uther’s not smiling, so Merlin lets his slip off his face. Uther peers at him, narrows his eyes and squints to get a good look. He’s not really any taller than Merlin himself, he’s not, but there’s something in the way that he stands that makes Merlin feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, one that could be only too quickly squashed, or at least, thrown off the bus, which this evening feels like the same thing. He can see nothing but grey about him tonight, not so much a death’s skull, but the shadows after death have been. Uther and he stand, a foot or two apart, forever, and Merlin would very much like to sit down, and have the bus leave, and not speak to anybody, and just make music. It seems to him a reasonable thing to ask for, but apparently not to Uther.

“C’mon Merlin, haven’t got all night, you know.” Arthur’s voice, coming from behind Uther, cause both to startle. Uther disguises it better, turning as if he had always meant to turn, turn and sit in the seat at the front, assume his throne, nothing to do with Arthur, or Merlin for that matter. Merlin, by contrast, stands, frozen, trying to look at Arthur, but Arthur’s gone, back down into his seat. Merlin’s heart is beating very much too quickly now, and he’d really like it to stop. He takes a step or two into the passageway, and he can see now, Arthur looking out the window, and Gwen sitting beside him actually at the window. In his spot. Arthur doesn’t turn to look, and Gwen purses her mouth into an approximation of a smile. 

“Don’t mind Uther,” she whispers, and Merlin has to think for a second and then he remembers, ah, yes, Uther, who wants him dead. He should probably care about that more, but he can’t, while Arthur’s staring out the window from the aisle seat and ignoring him. He pauses, just in case, but Arthur doesn’t turn.

In the seat across, Mordred’s beckoning him, and why not, he goes. He feels sick, a little. There’s no time, if he doesn’t want to cause any more fuss, to stow Aithusa properly overhead, and so she sits on his lap, heavy, unimpressed. 

“Was that?” asks Mordred. “Was that really Uther Pendragon?” 

“Don’t worry,” says Merlin. “You get used to it. Puts his pants on one leg at a time.”

“Sometimes,” says Mordred, leaning in, but in an absolutely normal level of voice, “I put mine on two legs at a time, but I cheat, you know, with magic. Uther probably doesn’t have any.”

“Mordred,” says Merlin. “Shut up.”

“You have it, don’t you?” says Mordred again, because he’s as big a fool as he looks. “I mean, magic.”

Mordred, Merlin thinks very loudly indeed, there is a time and place and this is neither. If you don’t want me to make you get off this bus right now, you will stop talking. Later, I promise.

Mordred, Merlin is pleased to note, shuts up. Which leave Merlin with naught to do but to surreptitiously side eye Arthur, as Morgana assembles herself, and starts with the rundown. Arthur’s looking good. Unfairly good, blond hair glowing like a halo, and all firm jaw, and biteable chin that he hadn’t been allowed to bite, and not even bothered. Like nothing important’s changed over the last 24 hours. Like all the energy Merlin’s lost has been somehow transmuted into Arthur energy. It’s fine. It’s not fine. 

You’re shaking, Merlin notes to himself. Stop.

Morgana sits down, and he’ll have to ask her later what she needs from him, because none of it went in. Uther stands, again, casting his eye on her imperiously, like she’s failed him. And Morgana, proud, funny, bright Morgana, looks like she’s being quelled, shrinking back into her seat by him. Obedient. 

“You have all let me down,” Uther is saying. “That was not a performance of which any of us should be proud. This was not a day for the Bane to remember in our bright and shining memories, no. This was a day to forget. I don’t even want to look at you, any of you, now. Use this trip, to think about the ways in which you must do better. You will do better. This is not how the Bane die, in a whimpering mess of acoustics! No. Tomorrow, I swear, we shall be triumphant. We rehearse at 9am. No excuses. No mistakes. No second chances.”

Merlin can feel the bus shaking now, it’s not just him. Mordred looks puzzled. The yellow green slides off him, he’s purple and purple alone, he’s safe and untouched. When Merlin looks at the bus, it’s under the yellow. The little bit of sick in his stomach has found a whole bunch of friends, and he remembers that he hasn’t eaten, not since before he slept. He wishes Uther would shut up too.

“You will not let me down, for if you do, those who fall behind will be left behind. Am I understood?” Uther is surveying them all as if he the general, and they the troops in formation. If he throws up now, will he be thrown off?

“Yes,” says the bus, mostly, although someone up the back, sounds like Gwaine, is shouting “sir, yes, sir,” and Merlin would very much like to buy that person a drink, for it was apparently, however insincere, the magic words for which Uther was waiting, and he sat down, job done, strips torn off, Bane may proceed. The bus didn’t move.

“People,” said Arthur, rising from his seat, and standing in the aisle, one hand on his chair, and the other, as if by accident, on Merlin’s shoulder, hot through his shirt. “You may feel disheartened. You may feel, to put in blunt terms, like complete shit. I know I do.”

Merlin looked up at his smile, beaming out at the bus, like he actually meant it. Felt the weight on his shoulder, Arthur pushing down, pinkie resting on the scarf about Merlin’s neck, absently rubbing at it. 

“That’s okay. Draw a line under it, it’s at an end, and that’s where we start. That’s not where we’re going to end up. We’re not going to dwell in the shit forever. We’re going to rise up like, like” – 

“sunflowers,” murmured Merlin.

“like sunflowers, like apple trees, like absolute oaks, because everything that ever there was grew up out of the shit, and so we will too. Together. For Bane, and for the love of music! Are you with me?”

The bus cheered. If Arthur ever needed a second career, thought Merlin, and was willing to dispense with pesky things like morality, he could probably make it as a TV evangelist. Make millions. Just like that, Merlin’s heart is as light as a feather again, at least until Arthur sits down heavily in his seat, and turns away to say something to Gwen, and goes back to ignoring him. Rock. Granite. Lead.

“Merlin,” says Mordred, “Did you notice the thing on Uther?”

Yes, thinks Merlin, but only to himself. Yes, I noticed the thing on Uther. And the bus. And the thing on you. Lots of things, Mordred.

“How about, Mordred, like I said, we talk about other things, while we’re on the bus. Like, for instance, what you can do for the Bane so that Uther doesn’t chuck us both?”

So many people, Merlin had noted, were very happy to take the opportunity to disburden themselves of their life stories to fellow passengers trapped on modes of transportation with no means of escape, and this proved the case with Mordred. 

In the course of the next 3 hours, during which Merlin tried not to look at Arthur, and when he did, he was always very disappointed to find him asleep, Merlin learnt that Mordred was adopted, and had grown up in a hippy commune in the Preseli mountains, with his mam not quite there enough of the time either in body or mind to tell him much beyond his da having something to do with the Bane, and nothing of his mother. He’d no brother, nor sister, nor anything else, but he had had the commune, and they’d been very encouraging of his taking time away to find himself, and his vocation, and so he’d decided to follow the Bane. Which, frankly, explained more than it ought to. Merlin had many follow up questions, but as many of them related to matters of magic, decided against asking them, for now. Given Uther. Given Arthur. Given all the strange yellow auras in which the bus was now drenched, excepting only Mordred, and himself, and when he remembered to extend the shield, to Arthur and Morgana.

As for what he could do, Mordred had a wide range of thoughts. There’d been a fiddler, Mordred had said, who taught him. He could play, he suggested, and Merlin squashed that one down hard, and reminded him of Uther’s speech, rather than Arthur’s. He could build a thatch roof, a mud roof, a grass roof, anything really that he set his hand to in the construction space, he could help on, so perhaps he could do that. Electricity, solar panels, he’d helped on, so he could probably help the riggers with that, but not much as he suspected that their little commune wasn’t exactly to code, with which conclusion Merlin heartily agreed. 

So, it was determined that Mordred should present himself to Morgana for deployment with the stage crew for strike up and strike down, and to Merlin for other bits and bobs in between, and that he would not speak of matters relating to magic, or to that matter, to MRs, or anything else beginning with the letter M, unless Merlin himself began the conversation. A compact was duly sealed by handshake, and Merlin told Mordred to look out the window for the rest of the trip as he, Merlin, was going to sleep. Outside, the birds flew, keeping pace with the bus. Merlin ignored them. Resolutely.  
Eventually, Mordred fell asleep. On his shoulder. There was drool. 

There was a camera sound from someone’s phone. He looked up to find Morgana, smiling at him.

“It’s very sweet. You’ll make a great mum someday, Merlin.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes at her. 

“No, really. He’s bunking in with you two tonight. Couldn’t get any more rooms. You don’t mind, do you, Art?”

There was an exasperated sigh from across the aisle. Merlin would have really, very much, liked to see the expression that went along with the sigh, but Mordred was heavy on his shoulder, and he couldn’t quite swivel. 

“Might as well. He can have my bed, I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, again. “Yes, you bloody well are. Stop being a drama queen,” he hissed, “and follow your own bloody advice. Get some more sleep in, you’ll need it for tomorrow.”

“How about,” said Arthur, in a conversational tone, a couple of degrees louder than the hushed whispers in which they had been conversing, “you shut up. I am perfectly capable of making decisions for myself, and I’d like to do that, without your interference. At all. I trust I make myself clear?”

Merlin could feel his neck flushing, from its base, all the way up his cheeks. Morgana looked at him, expectantly, ready for a Merlinesque rejoinder, of which he was fresh out, bit her lip, and turned to sit back down.

“Perfectly, my lord. I wouldn’t dream of sullying your decision making process.”

Arthur muttered something under his breath, and Merlin closed his eyes against it. 

“He’s in with you two then,” whispered Morgana. “Merlin, we need to have a chat tomorrow, while this lot are rehearsing.” 

Merlin nodded, but didn’t open his eyes. He could feel Arthur watching him, still, but there was nothing he could do about that. 

At the hotel, Mordred was effusive. “I can’t believe that I’m going to share a room with you both. Arthur, lead Bane guitarist, and Merlin” – 

“Yes, well, don’t get too excited,” said Merlin. “You’ll be in with the crew, I’m sure, after tonight. I didn’t exactly give Morgana warning.”

“I don’t care,” said Mordred. “Arthur, it’s such an honour, I can’t even find the words.”

Arthur nodded curtly, and grabbed his bag out from under the hold, and strode away from the bus, leaving Merlin to nudge Mordred into moving. 

“I think it’s best you don’t find the words, tonight. Just go jogging with him tomorrow, and the ice will thaw. I suggest you hold off on the violin. I’ll tell you when.”

“Of course, of course. Very sensible.”

Merlin tripped over Mordred, as he entered the hotel. It wasn’t the nicest of hotels, complete with seventies wallpaper, and furniture to match, all mustard yellow, or perhaps that was just the revolting lighting, but Mordred appeared awestruck, holding his violin under his arm like an ungainly squire, like he was ready to offer his full devotion to the proprietor, or Merlin, or Arthur, or anyone at all, for want of a direction to do something, anything at all. 

“My first hotel,” breathed Mordred. “This is the best.”

“Honestly, Merlin. Keep your body to yourself,” said Arthur from so far in front that Merlin wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to see it at all, half way up the stairs, looking down on all of them, like the peasants they were. “Nobody needs to be knocked over by your giant giraffe self. Surprised it doesn’t happen more often, stick boy like you.”

Merlin bit his tongue. There were too many things that he wanted to say, first and foremost that Arthur hadn’t minded one bit his giant giraffe self last night, secondly that they were, roughly, the same height, but the difference would be that people would be more likely to survive the experience if Merlin fell on them, thirdly, that it wasn’t his fault. None of it. Not the fall, not the drugs, and especially not the sex, and he had the bruises to prove it. None of those things were sayable, so he didn’t say any of them.

“I’m fine, Arthur,” said Mordred brightly. “No harm done.”

“Glad to hear it, Martin.”

“Mordred,” said Merlin. Arthur’s eyes slid over to him, and then off again, water off a hot pan.

“Come on then,” said Arthur, to Mordred, and Mordred skipped after him, fresh as a daisy, captain’s pick, and Merlin picked up the bags behind, taking the stairs at half speed. It was no surprise to him to find both beds taken, and Arthur chatting to Mordred in the same way that the Queen speaks to commoners, and both of them looking at him as if they had interrupted a royal ceremonial. 

Merlin was suddenly too tired to deal with any of it. He put Aithusa, carefully, on the luggage cases. Kicked his shoes off. Scrabbled through his bag to find his sleeping kit, the toothpaste, and the toothbrushes, and took them to the bathroom, and did the things in the bathroom that he customarily did at night. Came back, grabbed the duvet and made himself a little burrito at the base of the beds, and then kicked it off, because it was too hot. 

“Turn off the lights, would you?” he asked no one in particular, interrupting the intense discussion of Iron Maiden’s lyrics. 

“Oh, sorry, Merlin,” said Mordred, “We’ll go downstairs. I don’t feel a bit tired.”

“Your funeral,” said Merlin, turning over, and pulling the duvet up over his head, feet out at the bottom. 

The door clicked shut. Merlin slept. He dimly registered the door clicking again, at some point in the evening, or early morning, but he’d lost the ability to care. 

The next day, as predicted, was awful. The morning jog was hot, and sweaty, and Mordred talked the entire way about his love of Abba, and there was no bacon. Uther shouted, a great deal, at everyone, including Merlin. Arthur was bright and encouraging, at everyone except Merlin. Agravaine looked strangely pleased. Lot was missing, and all of the bass were playing to their own unique rhythms. Percy appeared to be completely on the straight and narrow path of chemical free living, for a nice change, and didn’t try to apologise any more, and the soundproofing spell Merlin had absently cast, at some point in the shower, must have held, because neither he, nor Gwaine said word one about any noise that may or may not have been made by Merlin, or Arthur, at any point in the proceedings. Which was good. It could be, for them, just like it never happened. 

Morgana, as threatened, pulled Merlin to one side, while Uther was shouting, literally, by the collar. Which was unfortunate. Morgana’s eyebrows, always dangerously high, reached heights previously unforeseen, at least by Merlin, and she became more forceful with the dragging.

“It’s not what it looks like,” said Merlin hurriedly, once they reached the verandah, covered in cigarette butts and empty crisp packets and he was released. “I mean, I’m fine.”

“Are you? That’s nice. I’m not asking, Merlin. I’m really not. But sort yourself out, yes?”

Merlin ducked his head, and told his neck to stop flushing. 

“Mordred. Magic, yes? You’re responsible for him, I don’t have time. Seems sweet enough, and he’s certainly enthusiastic. He’s going to bunk in with you, and Arthur, unless Arthur kicks up. You come up with a reason.”

“Come on. Morgana. I don’t have the energy. Not today. Not ever.”

A seagull landed, and cocked its head at him, before picking up and trying to eat an antique crisp. And then another. And another. A little flock of them, all every so often looking at Merlin and Morgana, expectantly.

“Sure you do. He’s got a week, and if he annoys anyone too much, he’s out on his ear.”

Merlin rubbed at his own ear, and found it tender. He stopped, and told himself not to remember, and hoped Morgana wasn’t paying too much attention. 

“Yeah. Fair enough. That is, if we last the next week, right?”

Morgana nudged him with her shoulder, and he kicked out at the seagulls, who scattered to the winds. 

At the stadium, Mordred was, as he claimed, a fair hand with the hammer. However, he also had opinions, many of them, about construction, and did not seem intimidated by Kay’s size, into following his directions, at least without Kay stopping and explaining, and consequently, building the stage, and the supports, took more of the day than normal. 

Then, after the stage was constructed, and the rehearsal concluded, and the Bane assembled on stage, Aithusa developed a short, and had to be cajoled. With all the mikes off, naturally, but it still attracted attention. 

“What’s happening,” said Mordred, very loudly, as Merlin breathed through his nose from under the desk. “Are you having a problem? I can help.”

“No,” said Merlin, through very tight lips, “No, you cannot. Please go and find Morgana. She has the job list.”

“She told me to find you,” said Mordred, crouching down to look under the desk. “Is it a short? I know all about what to do about those.”

“I’m sure,” said Merlin patiently. “So do I, and I’m doing it. Please sit in the chair and be quiet.”

He slipped the new wire into place, and asked Aithusa, man to semi autonomous sound desk cum dragon, if that felt better, and she stretched out in response, before he could ask her not to.

“Was that,” breathed Mordred in awe, “a dragon? Do you have a dragon? Is that actually a dragon?”

Merlin put her case back on, and focussed on the little tiny screws. 

“I can’t believe it. I am having,” said Mordred in tones of extreme excitement, “the best, the best day of my life.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Merlin. “But tomorrow you’re not allowed to have chocolate. Or sugar. You can meet her on our day off, but for now, go find Morgana. You want to be backstage for the first gig you’re at as part of crew, not down here. Right?”

“Gods, yes, amazing, yes,” blurted Mordred. “Have a good one, Merlin. You’re the best!” And with that, Mordred was out, running across the stadium field and up to the stage, like an extremely excited puppy. 

“Aithusa,” sighed Merlin, “he is exhausting.” 

Aithusa chirruped and settled back into the sound desk. Merlin clicked it all back on, just in time for the end of a rant from Arthur about stupid sound engineers never being where they ought, and fall asleep when they shouldn’t and confuse things that didn’t need to be confused.

He tabbed on. “Are we talking now, are we?”

Arthur clicked off. 

He hadn’t really expected anything different. “Sound check please?”

Arthur obliged. There was a gentle melody, he picked out, and Merlin was hopeful. Perhaps he was over it. 

Then it kicked into all the angry lyrics and heavy angry chords and angry singing, lots of lyrics about liars, and pretenders, and Merlin gave up. The sound levels, he could fix, and he did. Arthur, and what had happened, not so much. 

The concert was fine. Uther sounded fine. The next week was fine. The next month was fine. Everything was fine. Perfectly fine. Uther continued to shout at everyone, and Arthur continued to be the person who came in and gave the team captain’s pitch, let’s all get out there and play for England, for Wales, for the dragon, for whatever, and the thing was, because it was Arthur, it worked, or at least it worked enough to work for the moment, and doing a concert was all about working for the moment, so that was fine too. 

Mordred became an unremarkable part of the stage crew. Mordred learnt how to operate a sound deck, and Merlin texted Gaius to send out one of the simple ones, stacked up in the London studio, and the weekend it arrived, Mordred’s joy was uncontained, literally, he sparkled like an effervescent snail, and Morgana smiled at Merlin like he’d hung the moon for it. Arthur looked at him, briefly, with an almost smile, like he was almost a person who could be part of Arthur’s life again, instead of an annoyance, but then the smile vanished, and Arthur looked away. Mordred watched Aithusa fly with an open mouth, the first time, and asked if he could fly her, like she was some sort of drone. On hearing the no, the second and further times they took him out with her, he treated the event as unremarkable, which made Merlin slightly offended on her behalf, there was nothing unremarkable about her, and she deserved all the attention she got. He let her fry and eat some seagulls after that, and she and he both felt better. 

Mordred developed a talent for healing, and charming, things into the way he wanted them, which was both terrific, and, as raised by Morgana, slightly unsettling. The first, he discovered after Morgana nicked herself on a stile, climbing out into a field. He looked almost too happy afterwards, a broader grin than Merlin on his best days, and more dimples than an old lady’s heart could bear, or so the tea shop proprietress told them. The second, he discovered at the next hotel, when he sweet talked the manager into an extra bed at no charge, for their room. For it was, still, their room, for reasons that entirely escaped Merlin, but apparently there were more budgetary constraints, and true it was that the hotels had been downgraded in quality, no more ensuites, or plush carpets, or wifi even for that matter, although Mordred still appeared overawed by each and every one. And that left Merlin, and Arthur, sharing a bed, never quite big enough to avoid touching feet, or elbows, or escape, no matter how Merlin tried, and Arthur jerking himself away each time like he’d touched a slug, but with Mordred always and ever omnipresent, no opportunity to talk things over. Or anything else. Not that Merlin would know how to start with either. For Arthur was still playing angry riffs at every sound check, and sniping like he was in training for an Olympic sport. Merlin’s ears could serve as radar dishes. Merlin’s fingers were as spindly as sticks. Merlin’s tongue was as tricky as a twisted pretzel. Merlin now kept his thoughts, his words, and his hands, to himself. The point was, that Mordred was now charming, actively, for fun and profit, which was slightly unsettling. Merlin had a whole morning routine for casting protective shielding on Arthur, and himself, and the bus, which required him to add one whole teaspoon of sugar to his morning coffee, which was unpleasant, as he preferred his coffee to be more befitting Arthur’s current mood: black and bitter.

The nightly wind down sessions had recommenced, however, and the music there, if not on stage, was better than before. Mordred’s violin complemented Kay’s squeezebox, and his voice was, when on a good night, not unpleasant. It was different, now, to how it had been. Arthur’s anger was always exhausted, now, on the difficult task of selecting the most violent riffs he could play at Merlin during sound check, and the task of slightly greater difficulty, placating Uther by ripping the shreds off the stage at every concert, in exactly the way Uther wanted the shreds to be ripped. Which meant Arthur was free to noodle, in happier harmonies, no longer built on blues, but on whatever, whoever picked up the first instrument that night selected. There was one night where Mordred started first, and picked a reel, and Morgana twirled Arthur, and Gwen, and Lancelot up and down the shitty hotel corridors until the other guests came out and joined in, and the craic went on until 1am, past Morgana’s unofficial midnight curfew, and Merlin forgot that he wasn’t forgiven, and joined in. Then there was another where Gwaine brought in the rhythms of Tunisia, something connected with his lost one, which no one quite had the heart to unpack, nor need, because the music went from soft sorrow into something more like a comfortable blanket. Another where Galahad picked out a Bach melody on the bass, and the group outdid itself picking out harmonies, and countermelodies, and Merlin watched them do it, put the threads together. Aithusa stayed quite quiet for all of these nights, and so, mostly, did Merlin. He wasn’t needed.

That was rather the point, Merlin found himself musing, as he threw the toothbrushes and paste back into the bathroom bag, all ready to pack for Ipswich. There was nothing he was doing now, either for Bane, or for Arthur, that was something that only Merlin could do. Rhiannon’s purpose, whatever it was, seemed to have been satisfied, as there were no mantles hovering that he could see, no mystic omens forming themselves in his stale cornflakes of a morning, and the seagulls and pigeons, as far as he could tell, were all themselves, and not carrying any kind of message for any kind of person, underworld or above the earth. Just annoying feathered pests.

Which is why, when he picked up his phone to find a message from Kraak, in Manchester, inviting him to sit in, he found himself checking train timetables, and persuading both Mordred and Morgana that one night, one single night off, the second night in Ipswich in July, wouldn’t kill the Bane, wouldn’t kill Mordred to sit in, he’d leave the sound levels from the night before, it’d be fine. Mordred was very keen. Morgana was slightly less so. He thought, briefly, about pushing her into it, for if Mordred had charm, Merlin had it in spades, if ever he wanted it, which generally he didn’t. His time below had taught him many things, all linked to survival, and this was a minor one, in the scheme of things. 

Instead, he took Morgana for a walk, and was excruciatingly honest. About everything. It was a long walk. There were tears. Merlin had never been a particularly pretty crier, and at one point, an old lady pressed her handkerchief upon him, and told him that it would all be fine, and he nodded, and blew his nose at about 45dB, and she backed away, as fast as the lumpy footpath would allow, into a flock of comforting pigeons, and then Merlin forgot to pay her any attention at all. Morgana looked at turns sympathetic, and tender, and then horrified. She didn’t do him the discourtesy of telling him it would all be fine, but then, she knew him better than a random little old lady. Instead, she said that he could certainly go, as long as he came back, and promised to be safe and responsible, or she’d send Gwaine with him, at which they both laughed. And then she was excruciatingly honest with him, at first about such amusing matters as which of Lance or Gwen snored louder, and made more noise in bed, and then, about the Bane.

Over mediocre fish and chips, and there was an image, genteel slim Morgana regarding a chip with vinegar and salt like it contained the secrets of the universe, and devouring it whole, and then fanning her mouth when it transpired it had not cooled one iota, Morgana unburdened herself. Between sips of lemon squash, and crunches of chips, and shooing off of seagulls, the Bane’s finances were dissected by Morgana, rather in the same way as she picked the batter off her fish, although Merlin had to confess that the fish made more sense at first blush. Agravaine had, it seemed, served as the Bane’s go to person for all financial matters, up to a point. He had the bank accounts, and all the contacts, and all the books, and all the passwords, and had only very recently, in the last year, deigned to share some of them with Morgana, but only enough so that she could ensure that staff were being paid, and hotels were booked, petrol in the bus, and stadium hire appropriate. 

“And then,” said Morgana, crunching the last of the chips on her plate and side-eyeing Merlin’s. “Then I thought, I bet I could see it, if I tried hard enough. I mean, See it. And so, I did. The passwords, just floating there, like skywriting. Super weird, but then, so’s Aggro, right? So I checked in, and I know, Merls, I know how much there should be. I know door sales, and I know the outgoings. It’s not there. Not half, not even quarter of what should be. There’s something,” and here she ate the last of the fish on her plate, avoiding the splodge of tartar, “fishy. And then, I didn’t want to quite raise it while Uther was so keen on the tour, one last big hurrah, you know how he is. And every time I check it, rather than there being more, there’s less.”

Merlin pushed his plate of chips over. It was the least he could do. 

“He’s my uncle, or as good as. I’ve known him all my life. Never liked him, particularly, but that’s family, right? I have to tell Uther, don’t I? Shite. Makes me wonder what else I’d see, if I tried for more. For the whole story.”

Merlin pushed his lemon squash over also.

“Do you mind if I be terribly selfish? Can I ask you to make my shield extra thick before hand? Some padding, in extra large, please matron? I wouldn’t ask, but it’s all getting a bit much. And you’re the only one I think I should talk to about this, before I tell Uther. Can you imagine Gwen? She’d run Aggro through with a guitar neck. And Arthur?” She shook her head. 

Merlin tried not to imagine Arthur any angrier than he already was, and failed. Images of swords floating in front of him, just out of reach. Red cloaks, and red blood, and red dragons, and he shook his head, and they vanished.

“Of course. Let me know when. Anything, Morgana. It’s yours.”

“There. Is that better? I think it should be. And when you come back, after Ipswich, we’ll see about finding you a different room. We can throw Gwaine in, for now, if you want. That’d shut them all up. Do you want me to say something to him?”

Merlin pulled his lemon squash back. “He’s not getting any worse. I can handle it. If it’s a bother, don’t. Gwaine’s enough of a distraction for him most days anyway.”

Morgana poked at her plate absently. “Yes. I’ll tell him you have a family event, and glare forbiddingly if he asks any questions. That usually shuts him up. And keeping him clear of Emrys won’t be a problem, if you’re in Manchester, and he’s in Ipswich. That is, if he knows it’s you.”

Merlin pushed his squash away again, and Morgana claimed it. “Oh, he knows something. He knows whatever it is Rhiannon wants him to know, and he’s angry that he knows it, or that I didn’t tell him, or that I did, or that I’m taking advantage of him, or, or, something. I don’t know. I don’t even know if I want to know anymore.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow at him. She’d been giving them quite the workout. 

“Don’t. Look, if Mordred works out, maybe it’s better if I don’t come back at all. If Rhiannon lets me, that is.”

Morgana wrinkled her nose. “Fine. Come back to Ipswich, and let’s see where we are. If we’re okay, than you’re good to leave me here with this unruly mob, but don’t think you’re leaving me for good. The rest of the Pendragons, Bane, but not me.”

Merlin shook his head. “Package deal, you and me. You know all my secrets now. Keep them for me, yeah?”

The chippie papers are scrumpled in a heap and placed in a bin, seagulls disappointed. There had been no handshake, and yet Merlin felt as if a compact had been struck as solemnly as any other. It made the night that came after, full of snark from Arthur at the sound check, and a dismissal of legitimate congratulations for a good concert, bearable. It made it possible to lie in bed next to Arthur’s body, back to back, every inch of his spine a wall against Merlin, and sleep. There was an exit, he would be free, all of this burning under his skin, the helplessness of it, would surely be better from a distance. It had to be. 

Manchester was great, even after a six hour train trip. The club was fantastic. It was a completely different thing to be part of the floor, and then part of the music, and then part of the floor again, to feel the flows, and shape them organically with his body, and then his hands and mind, with no particular melody, no particular person, no goddesses bidding in mind, just shaping the music, and Rhiannon left him entirely alone. He’d booked a hotel, for after, but he didn’t make it there, not until after dawn, the most expensive luggage storage he’d ever had, but he didn’t care. He took himself to a café, and ate a normal size breakfast, like a normal person, and pretended he wasn’t disappointed. That there wasn’t something missing. Then, he went home to the Bane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god. I want to punch Arthur right in his pretty mouth. But I'm not going to, because he's a very confused person at the moment, and it's not entirely his fault that he's a prat. Also, because Merlin would be upset, and he's having a bit of a time of it at the moment. Next chapter, things are going to get worse. 
> 
> This chapter brought to you by  
> The Pretender (Foo Fighters)  
> Paranoid (Blck Sabbath)  
> Insomnia - Daya, King Arthur,   
> Immortal (dream evil)  
> Seventh Son of a Seven Son (Iron Maiden)  
> Wake Up (Rage Against the Machine)  
> Can you feel my heart (Bring me the horizon)  
> Killing In the Name (Rage Against the Machine)


	15. A moment of truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Norwich stadium is attacked by forces magical and not.
> 
> There's a crowd to think of. 
> 
> There's a Hunt to fend off. 
> 
> Arthur won't leave. Neither will Merlin. 
> 
> warning: in this chapter, there is death.

The shield is bright, and shimmers, even as it’s hit by the Hunt, over and over again. Merlin can feel each one, down his arms, and into his gut, into his essence. It’s burning him, like holding a stinging nettle, but all he can do is hold. They’re not all out yet. He can’t hear Arthur anymore, but he can feel him still there, still on the stage, still urging the people to safety, keep your heads, follow the lights, playing his guitar, keep it going, keep going, and he does. It’s what he does.   
*****************************  
There’s still smoke rising from the stage, threading about the drum kit, non magical, regular carbon floaters, and there’s a nasty list to it, Arthur’s up on one corner, and he wishes he’d go, but he doesn’t. The stage crew finally have Uther’s body on a stretcher, and he can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. They’re taking him out, and that’s the last of the Bane, except for Arthur, who’s still talking the people into calm, quelling the panic, fighting the tide, making sure the flow of the crowd, little black streams out the shielded doors, doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter, keeps flowing, keeps going. Keep your heads, and follow the lights.   
****************************  
The Hunt is still riding, chasing the stragglers who didn’t make it inside in time. He can see them, the riders, helmed in black, horns that no mortal beast above ground wears, and teeth snapping, and vacant eyes, and he can see the people, black shirts, and band names and screams, and there’s nothing he can do for them now, not without dropping the shield over those inside who are running for the exits. He can see them fall. He can see their souls consumed, evaporate away into nothing, and he can’t save them. Aithusa’s swooping on the riders, still screaming, still all bravado, but she’s out of flame, she’s got nothing left, he can see, and she’s overwhelmed. It’s not working, but she’s not stopping and he can’t help her, not without losing his hold on the shield, and that means that the ones inside die too, and he can’t. He can’t save them all.   
*****************************  
He can’t think anymore. He can’t do anything but hold the shield. This is how he’s going to die, holding a stupid umbrella for people he doesn’t know, while Arthur shouts at him, words that don’t have meaning, words that don’t connect to anything anymore. There’s an endless stream of people yet to go and he can’t stop.  
*****************************  
Aithusa’s back in her deck, and he wishes he could call her safe.  
*****************************  
He called Rhiannon, when he realised. Not after the incendiaries went on the stage, and Uther dropped, clutching at his chest, no. The stage was haloed with the usual yellow green murk, but nothing extra. Nothing to bother her about. He had no desire to talk with Rhiannon, not the way things currently stood, and there was nothing he knew of her that suggested she’d help with the aftermath of a bomb. Of a heart attack or whatever that was, that was occurring on stage. That was an entirely human thing, requiring entirely human responses, and he had the emergency services on the line and was giving information as a matter of course, when the rest started. He couldn’t see Morgana, but he could see people moving on stage, the Bane evacuating, and that was entirely reasonable and appropriate. They needed to be safe. He needed them to be safe.  
*****************************  
Then the next bomb went, up in Norwich stadium, behind him, and he turned, in time to see a section of the seated area drop, and puffs, billows, of smoke rise up from it, ground shaking, rumbles.   
*****************************  
The next one up in the roof, and a chunk dropped, not a chunk, a whole section of the massive roof, as big as a small house, dropping like a brick. There’d been people. There’d been people there, a minute ago. He could smell blood. He thought, momentarily, about trying to get there, move blocks, help the dying, flee to safety himself, but he was an island in the maelstrom. There’d be no point. He wouldn’t reach them. He wouldn’t get out.  
*****************************  
He called the emergency services again, but the line was dead. His mobile dead. The mains power dead. People running about the sound deck, about the black partitioning like it was a rock in a river, but without direction. Then he understood, the exit lights had gone, and in the dark, there was no guidance. In the chaos, no one would notice, surely? He flicked werelights over all the entrances he could find. It didn’t help, the crowd still milled about like fish in a barrel, devoid of hope. He could feel the ground trembling, as another explosion burst, the stadium behind the stage this time, and he watched another section crumble, heard the screams, saw more smoke.

Saw the stage tip further to one side. The stage which should now be empty.

Which was not empty. Arthur was standing, on the highest and most visible point, shouting, inaudible to Merlin, but the people closest to the stage were responding, finally making for exits, safety.  
He could help with that. That required very little energy, and he had it now to spare. Arthur’s voice sounded forth, and he saw the far off figure startle in response, and he cut off whatever he’d been saying and started again, in a steadier voice.

“People of Bane! We need to evacuate. Lights mark the exits. You need to, I need you to take your friends’ hands, and go with them. No panic now, keep your heads. These are your brothers, your sisters about you, and everyone is yours to protect. Pick up the wounded. Pick up your fallen. Take them with you. Keep your heads, and walk with purpose.”

Then, to Merlin’s disbelief, he started to play. Not one of the Bane’s, no, and not any of the angry ones he’d been favouring, no. One of the Beatles, Lance had played a couple of nights back, here comes the sun, nice and sweet, lyrics were soft and soothing and completely incongruous, but he could see the waves of calm spreading across the crowd, crushes fading into people again and he was suddenly hopeful.

That was stupid. He should have known better.  
*****************************  
He called Rhiannon the second he knew. 

When the motorcycles entered the stadium, ridden by something, someones terrifying, built of terror, on purpose, and the crowd reverted back into a mob. He could see the overlay of the Hunt, over the humans who were being ridden, as fast as greyhounds, black, and white, and brindled, all teeth showing, and snapping, and snarling for the kill. The leader, black-helmed, riding straight at him, and he knew it was Gwynn ap Nudd behind the helm, driven and driving his hounds, but for why, he did not know. Not that it matters, when one is before the Hunt. And it was on him, as much as it was on the crowd, the terror, if not more. Worse, even, for he knew, he had seen the work of the Hunt first hand. Rhiannon had required it of him, the riding, and to take his chances with the Hunt. He’d survived. He had. He didn’t need to be tested again. No one mortal needed to be tested this night.

The Hunt had been called. 

Someone was doing this. There was no question of it, and he could see now, the smoke being overlaid with the layers of yellow, green, feeding off the panic.

He called on Rhiannon, from deep in his gut, momentarily cutting off Arthur with it, with the deepness and urgency and desperation. He could see Arthur looking at him, suddenly, and he flicked at least the headsets to life. He wouldn’t die out here alone, without his voice. If Arthur had anything left to say to him, that was.

Called Mordred, Morgana, too, for he’d never tried before to survive the Hunt alone, without Rhiannon’s favour, without friends, and he’d be damned if he would try it now. He called forth Aithusa, who required no rousing, out and up and flaming with vigour, and didn’t even try to tell her what to do, she’d know, deep in her young bones, who the enemy was tonight. 

“Hey Arthur,” he said into the headset. “you’ve got to go. Morgana’s coming, she can take over.”

“Tell you what,” said Arthur. “I’ll go when you go. Does that work for you?” Arthur should not be sounding amused at him. He should not be sounding like that, all soft and tender, when he, Merlin, is being surrounded by the Hunt, and very unlikely to survive the experience, let alone rescue anyone else.

“No. It doesn’t bloody work for me. This isn’t something you can stand against. No one can. Surely,” and here Merlin swallowed down the panic, “surely, you can see that.”

Arthur was still playing his guitar, Merlin could hear dimly, through the shouting. Some people were still making it out, filing out the exits, water in a stream. 

“Shut up. Sure I can,” said Arthur, all stupid courage. “Because you are.”

Merlin held the sounddeck protectively, as one of the riders swerved past. “It’s different. It’s different for me. I am literally surrounded at this point. You can leave. I’d like you to leave. Then one of us won’t be dead. Sounds good to me.”

“Well,” said Arthur. “That’s because you are an idiot.” He went back to playing, now back to Cream. “Also, aren’t you going to do anything a bit more productive than cower there like a coward, when I know you’re not? I can’t keep playing forever.”

Merlin looked up at the stage, where Arthur was looking back at him, guitar pointing down into the maelstrom. “What exactly do you think I can do? I can’t even run.”

He could hear Arthur’s sigh at the back of his neck. “Merlin. I can fucking see your dragon. And I know. Just do it. For me.”

Merlin thought, briefly, many things. He thought about playing it off, asking Arthur to explain it all. Explain what it was that he thought he knew, and from when. Then, he thought about asking Arthur whether this was what had his knickers in a twist, rather than anything to do with music, or sex, or Emrys, or his father. Then he thought about telling Arthur he loved him, like really, super very much loved him, and that at least when, not if, he died, he’d have had the satisfaction of knowing that he had said it at least once. 

Then he dismissed all of that as being rather beside the point, which was to try to survive so he could ask Arthur, tell Arthur, all the things, in a situation where neither of them had to survive, and cast a shield. Cast a shield that encompassed the stage, his soundbooth, and at least half the stadium, the part where the Horned King wasn’t, he couldn’t quite manage more anything further, nor with the Hunt’s power the way it was. Selfishly, he was determined that if he was going to save people, or at least try to, he was damn well going to save Arthur. He could see Mordred and Morgana on stage, felt the healing spells being cast, he could see Arthur, now resuming his public service announcement role, please leave the building, try to stay calm, take your friends with you, you will be safe, you are protected, still playing absently now, back to something a little more tranquil, a lullaby for those dying, a balm for those wounded, and a reminder for those still living to leave and stay that way. He was doing it, too. Even with no time to spare to listen, Merlin could feel it, feel Arthur’s music in his bones, telling him there was a point of hanging on against the horror, feel the crowd responding to it, calming, even as the Hunt rode out again, and again against the shield, and feeling the power of it batter against his shields, shaking him to the teeth. 

Then, he set in to wait for Rhiannon, and hoped his strength would last long enough.  
***************************** 

He can feel now, feel each blow against the shields, and see the blows on his arms, when he looks.

There are only a few left in the stadium now, the Hunt ripping the turf, as they wheel about, and about, waiting for his strength to fail, when Gwyn strides to the barrier and addresses him directly.  
“You cannot defy us much longer, little falcon. It is not in you.”

“Try me,” Merlin says, through gritted teeth, even as another wound opens. 

“Rather, it should not be in you. I have every right to ride out. Rhiannon has allowed it”

“Ride as you please,” says Merlin, grunting against the pain, as Gwyn lifts a hand to the barrier, and presses, hard, red tinges of wire shredding at it, at him, and shrugging off the betrayal. “But not here. Not against me. Not against him.”

Gwyn looks up at the stage, and chuckles, as deep as the sea, before a wave crashes. “You have a point. Uther is gone. That is twice, now, that we have met. Hope that we do not meet again. For if we do, I shall surely take you, little falcon.”

“You can try,” says Merlin. “But you will fail.”

The Horned King laughs, and Merlin’s spine tingles, and in the space of a blink, he is gone, leaving behind him a stranger, a man dressed in a grey suit, on a Honda, wearing a motorbike helmet with a bumper sticker beseeching passersby to save the whales, looking more confused than Merlin. The yellow green haze dissipates into nothing. The last of the crowd leaves the stadium.

And Merlin collapses, still holding up the shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter. Arthur on the stage, knowing Merlin's down there giving it all he's got, knowing what Merlin has to give. Merlin knowing that he's going to die (or is he? only the next chapter will tell...okay, he doesn't die. Couldn't do that to Merlin. Everyone else, however, is fair game). Arthur trying to get the crowd out safely, and knowing that he can't get them all out. Trying to give comfort to those who won't make it. Because sometimes, that's what happens, you don't make it, or you can't save them, and the next best thing is to give comfort, right? And then try to stop it happening again. 
> 
> This chapter brought to you by   
> Here comes the sun (the Beatles)  
> Sometimes (James)  
> Rhiannon (Fleetwood Mac)  
> Shake it out (Florence and the Machine)  
> Sunshine of your love (Cream)  
> No more tears left to cry (Ariana Grande), for all those who died in Manchester


	16. Feathering the nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin does not leave the hotel, and Arthur brings him food.
> 
> Also, there is sex.

There’s music. He can’t open his eyes, but there’s music playing, someone picking out something vaguely familiar on a guitar, and he can’t keep his eyes open anyway. It’s soothing and he falls asleep again into it, letting him lull him down into the waves.  
***************  
His mouth is dry and his skin feels two sizes too big, like if he moves too quickly he’ll fall out of it. He doesn’t move. There are people talking, several rooms away from wherever he is. A gentle murmur of voices. No one’s screaming. He sleeps again.  
***************************  
This time, he opens his eyes. It’s not a hospital, which is good. There’s spraycrete on the ceiling, endless little ragged edges of it, and his hands can feel a polyblend blanket, smooth, but not too smooth, warm but not too warm, goldilocks zone, something machine produced, rather than the result of careful hard manual labour, or magic, for that matter. His mouth, on the other hand, feels like every bad hangover curled up to die under his tongue. Upside, it means he’s alive. The spraycrete, and the hotel blanket speaks to above, rather than under, which is also a win. Merlin likes the wins. 

He can’t hear music anymore. 

There’s a sound, though. It’s a sound with which he’s relatively familiar, having shared a room with its maker, going on six months now. It’s not a snore, he’s been told, usually with a thrown pillow or too, heedless of whatever stupid décor decisions have lead to the lamps or paintings in the target’s path, but it’s not not a snore either. It’s comforting, sort of.

He turns, slowly, and as stealthily as he can, given the complete lack of energy, on his side. There’s Arthur, on his side facing Merlin, mouth slack in sleep, hair every which way but tidy, a little wet patch under his mouth made up of Arthur drool, very much asleep, very much a mess, and very the best thing Merlin could ever imagine waking up to, when he hadn’t imagined waking up at all. Behind him, the bedside clock is flashing 11.21 in its red neon, and Merlin has no idea whether that means it’s the middle of the day, or the middle of the night, or whether aliens have visited, along with the Hunt, and it’s all too hard to figure out, so he doesn’t. Arthur is there, and safe, and Merlin’s alive, and that’s more than he expected, so he goes back to sleep again.  
****************************************

Merlin awoke, properly. Stretched his muscles down against the end of the bed, pushing at the sheets with his toes, and enjoying the way that it pushed back against them. This time, he was alone. No witness to the wobble of his legs as he pushed them over the edge of the bed, and down to the carpet. No witness to the way in which he had to take a minute to recalibrate his stability, walking to the door, or relieve himself in the yellow toned bathroom, holding himself up with one hand against the wall. He drank a litre of water, five glasses on after another, and made himself stop. There was two small packets of shortbread, and he inhaled them, and it was vastly insufficient. He brushed his teeth, and put his toothbrush back next to Arthur’s. Clothes, next. 

He understood, once he’d taken a second, where he was, the hotel room in Norwich. That was his duffel bag, next to Arthur’s. There was Aithusa, suckling in electrons, someone had fixed her up for a charge. She was smeared in black, and more scuffed, and once he’d attended to the food situation, he’d have to come back. She needed it. She needed him. But she was asleep, and she could wait.   
Black shirt, jeans, done. Socks, trainers. Done. Jacket, wallet, hotel key. Phone? 

Phone was on the desk, next to the bedside clock, still flashing 11.21. His phone told him that it was in fact 2.21 in the afternoon, and the date was two days beyond what it should have been. There was a stream of messages, too exhausting just to contemplate reading, and Merlin put it in his pocket, messages unread. Food.  
The door swung open, and he looked up at Arthur. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur said, with eyebrows that strongly resembled Uther’s in their grumpiness. “Get back in that bed.”

Merlin looked very hard at Arthur. “I,” he explained semi-patiently, “am in need of sustenance. Food. Bed does not contain any. I need food.”

“I have food,” said Arthur semi-patiently himself, and thrusting a brown paper bag at him, which Merlin took before it knocked him over. “Get back in that bed.”

“I don’t have to take orders from you,” said Merlin, extracting the chicken burger from the bag hastily, in case Arthur took it back. He sat on the bed anyway. It was totally his choice. Arthur sat next to him, and the bed dipped. 

“I’ll call Morgana, and she’ll make you,” said Arthur, around a chip. 

“Take orders from you? Not a chance. Morgana likes me more than you,” said Merlin, having inhaled half the burger and starting to feel more human, in addition to being alive. 

“Not really relevant,” said Arthur, lifting another burger from the bag, and starting in on that. “She doesn’t discriminate, she’s an equal opportunity tyrant.”

Merlin finished his burger. Arthur smiled at him around a mouthful of bun. Arthur’s burger looked very delicious indeed, all brown bun crispness, and lettuce and chicken sticking out the side, with only a small amount of mayonnaise ooze to smooth its way. Merlin wondered whether Arthur could possibly understand how very extremely hungry he was, and whether Arthur would object very much to him, Merlin, annexing just a small part, or possibly a very large part, or even the whole thing, but before he could pounce, Arthur pushed the bag at him again, and miracle of miracles, there was another whole burger in the bag. Arthur swallowed his mouthful, safely, as Merlin started on burger number two. 

It was half way through that burger, once Arthur had finished his, that Merlin could feel his magic again, a loose tingle, a fizz to it. Like he was cider, and all the nucleation sites down the side turned towards Arthur. He ignored it. It was probably better that way. He focussed on the burger, and not on Arthur watching him eat it. 

Although, he realised as he finished the burger, and licked off the residue from his fingers, there were probably things that he should be focussing on that weren’t chicken and mayo. Asking intelligent questions to which he didn’t really want the answers, like whether Uther was still alive. How many people had died. Exactly what Arthur knew, and how long he’d known it. All those things. 

He rootled around in the brown paper bag hopefully, but found only fries, which he ate, one after another, mechanically. With keen awareness that Arthur was staring at him. 

“Good burger,” he said, for want of anything else to stem the surge of screaming questions that were trying to force themselves out. “Nice and chickeny.”

“Merlin.” 

“I think I’m still hungry,” said Merlin, shaking the bag in the hope that more burgers would appear. 

“Merls.” Arthur’s hand took the bag away. “I’ll get you more food. How about you go back to bed.”

Merlin watched the bag disappear. “How about I go and get me more food.”

Arthur put his hand on Merlin’s thigh. “How about you go back to bed.”

Merlin looked at Arthur’s hand, on his leg, and took a slow breath, feeling the fizzing spread, up from his thigh, and spread out through his body, like ripples on a pond, and didn’t say anything. Flexed his thigh muscles, experimentally, and heard Arthur take a short breath in. 

“I think,” said Merlin, “that I could be persuaded. But I’m pretty hungry so it’s going to take a bit more than that to convince me.”

Merlin could feel Arthur laughing, low and shaky. Feel Arthur’s hand, rubbing down his thigh, tracing circles on the inside with his thumb. Feel the way in which his leg was tensing in response. “I meant to sleep. Sleep. That’s what you meant. Right?”

Arthur chuckled again, and Merlin looked up. 

“Yeah,” said Arthur, leaning in, and rubbing his nose against Merlin’s. “Sure. Sleep.”

Arthur’s kiss, sober, was an entirely different thing. Not worse, not worse at all. Arthur’s kiss was soft, and tender, and reassuring, in contrast to Arthur’s hand, which had moved further up Merlin’s leg, all possessive army marching forward in search of lands to conquer. Or reconquer. Or just force Merlin into falling back into the bed, which he did, not because he didn’t see any point in fighting a battle about it, but because he didn’t see any point in going back to bed if Arthur wasn’t in it, looping his hand about Arthur’s neck, and tugging him down on top. 

It was a good feeling, being blanketed by an Arthur, Merlin found, all normal amounts of heat this time, and hands that seemed to be interested in mapping out his body, rather than setting fires to it, burning it alive. Almost a safe feeling, a protected one, almost, were it not for the stirring it was creating in himself. 

That Arthur, with his body, was intent on protecting Merlin, even from himself. That Arthur was present himself, by choice, currently occupied in seeing how exactly he could make Merlin moan by sucking a bruise into the crease of his shoulder, in almost exactly the same place, if he remembered rightly, as he’d done last time, not that he probably was, because his thoughts were getting pleasurably scrambled, and he wasn’t going to insist on Merlin explaining himself, which was good because he wasn’t sure how he could, possibly, at this point. 

That this time, Merlin’s hands were being allowed to roam, above, around, below, as he would choose, and that Arthur was responding to it, was present for it, that those were Arthur’s hands, doing likewise. That it was Arthur, flicking his head back to laugh joyously at the ceiling, when he, Merlin, finally achieved his goal of getting his hands down Arthur’s trousers, and grabbing his arse, all hard muscles, soft edges hiding the firmness, grabbing at full tilt, pulling him so close he could feel the ridge of him hard against himself, the heat of it. That it was Arthur, pulling at his shirt, at Merlin’s, so that their stomachs met, bare, against each other, and then, gasping for breath at the sensation, pressing his forehead back against Merlin’s, to rub his nose gently against Merlin’s own. Needing the second to regain his wits. That Merlin’s stomach had done that to him. Merlin’s body. Merlin’s hands. It was a good feeling, even if he, Merlin, wasn’t altogether sure that he had the energy to see any of those good feelings through, not this time, but he was damn well going to give it the red hottest of red hot goes. 

Which is why Merlin was unimpressed when it was all put to a hard stop, by Arthur rolling off to confront whoever it was had just entered the room. Merlin hadn’t even noticed.

“It can wait,” said Arthur, standing up, and pulling his shirt down, ineffectually. “Whatever it is. It can wait.”

It was Morgana, looking as immaculate as ever, as if she hadn’t been fighting down evil hordes, all glowy and warm and full of good clean Morgana magic, and Merlin beamed at the sight, thoroughly relieved and delighted to see her. 

“No,” said Morgana, “Hi Merlin. Nice stomach. I’d hug you, but Arthur’s in the way, and I’m slightly scared to interrupt.”

Merlin remembered to tug his shirt down and told his lower half to shut up. 

“It’s the police, again,” said Morgana. “Aredian wants to interview Mordred, and me, and I think you need to be there. They want Merlin too.”

“No,” said Arthur, before Merlin could say anything. “I’ll come, but Merlin’s not talking to anyone today. He’s still out to it, if they ask you, yeah?”

Merlin sat up, slightly indignantly. “I can talk. I can talk for myself.”

Arthur turned back, and gave him one of the soft warm smiles, the ones that caused Merlin to involuntarily think of warm bread, and tea, and Sunday mornings, and had the side effect of shutting him up because he couldn’t think. “Yes, you can. When you’re ready. Which you’re not, right now. For one, you’ve got about as much energy as a wet pasta noodle. For two, I think we need to have a chat, you and me, about what we’ve said. Singing the same song, yeah?”

Merlin sat back down into the bed.

“If you stay here,” said Arthur, stealing from Merlin’s playbook and delivering as cheeky a smile as any of Merlin’s own, “I’ll bring you food.”

“Food, Arthur?” said Morgana, arching an eyebrow. “He’s hardly a child. I don’t think it’s food that he’s after.”

“More chicken burgers?” said Merlin hopefully. “Caffeine? I would kill for a coffee. I don’t mean really. Just, you know, figure of speech. A bippity boppety nope on the magical death for coffee. Cake even? I’m starving,” he begged. “Starving, Morgana. I’ve the hunger on me.”

Morgana’s second eyebrow rose to meet her first. “We’ll try not to be long. But yes, I think you should stay here.”

“Take your shoes off,” said Arthur, more wisely. “I’m taking them with me so you can’t go anywhere. Trousers too.”

“No,” said Morgana, “please leave the trousers on.”

“Please don’t listen to my sister,” said Arthur. “This is our room, Morgana. You can leave. Please leave. Merlin, take your pants off.”

Merlin did not move. The Pendragon siblings stared at him, expectantly. 

“I think you should both leave. Go. Go now. I am disinviting you from this room. Go deal with police people, because otherwise I’m going to come down and talk to them without my pants, and I don’t think,” said Merlin sternly, “that anyone wants that.”

Morgana blanched. Arthur laughed. 

“I promise,” said Merlin, “that I’ll be here when you come back, as long as you bring food. No food, no Merlin.”

Arthur held his hand up. “Quick as I can. Two hours, tops. Don’t go anywhere.”

Morgana gave him a look. “We,” she said as sternly as Merlin had done, “Will talk later tonight. About many things. Not about pants. I do not want to know about anything involving pants.”

Merlin could feel the flush arriving from his collarbones. “I do not wish to tell you about anything involving pants, so that works out nicely.”

“And Merlin,” said Morgana, slightly less sternly. “None of this is your fault. Please remember that, if you do decide to read the news. Or any of the many messages I have left you, to make sure that you know what happened, the official version. None of it.”

Merlin shook his head. “Go talk to the police.”

Morgana blew him a kiss, and left. Arthur tugged him down the bed by the ankles, and kissed him so hard that he could feel it still, a minute after Arthur had left. All tingles, when he touched his mouth, to check. 

Then, he got out his little screwdriver from his bag, and gave Aithusa’s sound deck a solid working over. It took quite some time, during which Aithusa ate the contents of the rubbish bin, probably because it smelt of chicken, and one of the hotel bath towels, probably for the same reason, it hadn’t been a very clean towel even when they checked in. Merlin decided that he did not have it in him to care any more. She hadn’t killed anyone today, and she had been incredibly brave, and quite an excellent dragon several days ago, and he was very proud of her, and if she wanted to eat a towel, he wasn’t going to stop her. It probably wasn’t going to upset her digestive system, it was carbon based after all. He pushed her snout back, as she nudged the screws, and secured the case safely once more. 

Then, since she was being compliant, and because he wasn’t being allowed to leave the room, free Merlin now, he ran his hands down her back, questioningly. There weren’t many scales missing, so far as he could tell. Some blacker than they should be, and he put the other towel to good use, rubbing her down, until she shone as pearly as she ought, purring in a low growl at the attention, rolling on her back on the bed, to let him check her underneath. She’d been lucky. He stretched her wings out, as far as he could, pushing the stupid television back to make sense. Holding them up, with the overhead light shining, he checked as best he could for nicks, although Aithusa wouldn’t let him in her armpits, folding the wings tight back in when he tried, and snorting, dragonesque giggles, flame tipped puffs of smoke to punctuate. After, she curled herself around him on the bed, neck about his waist, and settled into sleep. Which was delightful, but incredibly hot, and heavy, and after he’d soothed her down into it, he lifted her head back up, and inched himself out, to sit on the bed beside her. Sitting turned into lying down, and lying down turned into another little minute of eyes closed. 

Another little minute of eyes closed would have turned into sleep, save that his phone blinked at him questioningly as another message came in. He really didn’t have any good excuses left, he felt. He’d been asleep for long enough. He’d eaten something. Arthur had apparently forgiven him. He wasn’t a coward, after all. He’d been there, and done that, and it would be advisable, before he left the hotel room and talked to anyone who wasn’t a Pendragon, to find out what it was that people thought had happened. Exactly where and what people thought he had been and done. What the fallout was likely to be. All of those things that weren’t possible, not really, to think about, with Arthur in the room, giving him that smile. Any of the smiles, really, that he’d catalogued over the last six months, quite frankly, would be sufficient to cause the hamster wheel to spin ineffectually, the day Merlin was having.

He unlocked the phone.

Morgana had sent him sixteen messages, and there was one notification from the Bane app. 

The Bane group chat had one hundred and nineteen. 

Gwaine had sent him five, and Gwen one. 

Arthur had left him a voicemail. A voicemail that went for over 10 minutes, by the looks of things.

He decided he would leave the Bane group chat alone. Start with Morgana.

Morgana Bane official: thank you all for your patience. Arthur and I appreciate your good wishes. For the moment, Uther is resting comfortably at hospital but is not up to visitors yet. Tour on hold this week, hotel paid up until next week. We’ll let you know ASAP once we’ve determined a path forward.

Morgana your BFF: You better be alive, or I’ll kill you for scaring me like this.

MYBFF: I couldn’t get to you. 

MYBFF: Uther in hospital in induced coma. Drs took out half his gut. Explosion damage. Mordred with him in case can do smthng.

MYBFF: Both me and Mo, drained. Saved some but not all inside your shield. 

MYBFF: Outside shield, crowd down about 800. Some from roof, some from other.

MYBFF: Official is unseasonal weather event and earthquake. 

MYBFF: Police investigation underway. 

MYBFF: Aggro done runner.

MYBFF: Cleared out Bane savings and maxed his credit card. Police incident report on that too.

MYBFF: I moved some $ to another account so Bane not broken, but bruised.

MYBFF: Arthur not hurt. 

MYBFF: Arthur fronting press. 

MYBFF: Gwen minor scrapes but okay.

MYBFF: Same rest Bane.

MYBFF: Wake up soon please.

MYBFF: Merlin please wake up

MYBFF: Merlin

He decided that he didn’t need to answer that, given he’d seen Morgana already, and that all the details he wanted to ask about weren’t suitable for a phone message, when they were being investigated by the police. Just in case. She’d been suitably discreet in her messages, and he should not undo all that carefulness, just because he wanted more details. He’d have to wait. 

He thumbed down to Gwen, whose message consisted of a series of little hearts. Merlin sent her one back.

Gwaine’s messages were a little more to the point. Was that, Gwaine wanted to know, from the underworld? Because if it was, he was going down now, after his man. There was no good answer to that one, and definitely no discreet one, so Merlin didn’t try. Face to face discussion, or nothing at all.

Arthur’s voicemail, then. He wanted to hear it, and he didn’t. Anything that went for ten minutes, with Arthur, probably consisted of a great deal of shouting, or a great deal of music, and he wasn’t sure he was up to either one. Besides, anything Arthur wanted to say to him, he could jolly well say face to face. He’d had enough of the silent treatment. Besides, he told himself, putting the phone back on the bedside table, voicemail unplayed, he was much too tired. He kicked his shoes back off, and with it, the pants, too hot for bed, and curled himself around his dragon, and went back to sleep.  
**********************

There’s a nuzzling at the back of his neck, and he bats it away, before he clocks that Aithusa is still at his front, warming him in a totally unnecessary way, given the balminess of the summer. That the arms that are enfolding him from the rear are human, and as possessive as any dragon, if a little cooler. Aithusa’s stirring now, and he gives her a gentle shove. There are some things that dragons don’t need to be part of. She disapparates back into her case. He can feel Arthur awake behind him now, watching. His magic wakes too, and he flicks the door shut, locked.

“She’s smaller, today,” Arthur says, finally. 

Merlin makes a non committal sound. Aithusa’s whatever size she feels like, so far as he can tell. 

“Less scary, when she’s curled up. She growled, a little, when I came in. She ate one of your burgers.”

Merlin stirs at that, and settles again. He could spare one burger. Probably. 

“She let me pat her, a bit.”

“Not a dog, Arthur.”

He can feel Arthur’s growl at the back of his neck, the bit that’s not protected, and he shivers. 

“I saw her, Merlin. I know. She’s fucking lethal. And she let me pat her.”

Merlin shrugs, a little, and Arthur’s arm closes back on him, pulls him closer. Close enough that he can feel what Arthur’s not wearing. Close enough that he can feel a distinct line of enquiry that Arthur’s body is pursuing, even as he’s talking about a different line of investigation altogether. Arthur’s legs, and hips, have come up to cradle Merlin’s backside, and he’s just as enfolded now, as he’d been that night. The one he’s trying not to think about.

“Just like you’re letting me do this,” says Arthur in what might pass for a normal tone of voice, if Merlin ignores the way Arthur’s tracing his chest hair, and down his ribs. “You’re lethal, aren’t you? You shook the stadium with it. You held him back, that rider. I saw you take them down, those things. Men? I don’t even know.”

There’s no good way of answering that, and with Arthur’s hand wandering, he’s not sure if Arthur’s expecting one.

“When did you know?” he whispers, and he can hear the shake in his voice.

He can feel Arthur laugh, just a little chuckle, his chest rumble against Merlin’s back. “Know which thing? How do you know I know anything?”

Merlin nudges back with an elbow into Arthur’s gut, and twists within his arm, once the grip slackens. Then he uses his longer limbs to tackle Arthur into a wrestling match, which first he thinks he’s winning, purely because Arthur’s as ticklish as Aithusa, and flinches away from his armpit grappling, but because he loses grip on Arthur’s wrists at the time he’s pinning him with his hips, pelvis flush,   
Arthur tumbles them back over, and unequivocally has Merlin trapped on the mattress, sinking deep under his body. Arthur has his wrists back above his head, in the pillows, and Arthur has, in some sneaky manner managed not only to gain the upper hand but also the lower one, sandwiched between Merlin’s legs, and pressing his advantage, his firm advantage, to pin Merlin such that he doesn’t want to escape. Then he does the nose rubbing thing again, and Merlin melts.

“I know you know about my magic. Or you wouldn’t be letting me do this,” says Merlin, and tilts his head up to steal Arthur’s lips, smiling against his. 

“Ah,” says Arthur. “So I know about your magic. Yes. That one. I saw the snake, that night with Valiant. I saw where your dragon came from. I’m not daft. I’m good with that.” Then, he pushes back up into a plank, careful not to touch any part of Merlin, and rolls back off. 

“That’s not the problem. Not that secret.”

Merlin rolls on his side, the better to present an air of innocence, if it’s needed. Then he waits.

“Did you think,” says Arthur, now looking at the ceiling. “Did you think that I wouldn’t recognise you? Merlin, I know the sounds you make at night, when you think I’m not listening. I have a catalogue in my head, of the way the different bits of your body work. The same day, the same day you led me on a chase down at Brighton beach, all bare like that, all those noises, you think I’m not going to pay attention when it’s in the music? Music’s what I do. It’s all I do. I pay attention, Merlin. Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Merlin breathes deep, but he can’t get the air. He doesn’t have any words to answer that.

“Then,” says Arthur, staring at the ceiling determinedly. “That night. I still don’t know what I did to you, not properly.”

“Nothing I didn’t want,” says Merlin, but Arthur continues like he’s not even listening. 

“I wasn’t even there, Merlin. It was someplace else? We were there, together. We were in a stream? I think you had fur. We were otters, maybe? You were brown, and I had claws, and god, there was a wood, there was grass. There was a deer, watching us. And this woman, made of birds. Does that make sense? Does any of this make sense?”

Arthur’s starting to sound a bit thready now, and he can’t have that. He tugs at Arthur’s hand, takes it in his, still staring at the ceiling. 

“Yeah. It’s okay. It’s all okay. We’re here now, aren’t we?”

Arthur breathes out, slow and deliberate. “Are we?”

“Yeah,” says Merlin, tugging at his hand. “We are. Her name’s Rhiannon. She’s a goddess. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” says Arthur, rolling back on his side to face him. “Don’t be sorry.”

Merlin props himself up on an elbow, to be able to see better. “It’s my fault. I should have told you.”

“Told me what, Merlin? That a goddess was going to make me have sex with you? Believe me, I wanted you long before then.” Arthur’s smile is kind of crooked, now, and he’s looking at Merlin’s mouth, more than his eyes. “I knew you, and you didn’t say anything, and I thought, I thought you were playing some sort of game. Let’s see how far I can twist Arthur before he snaps. It wouldn’t have been much further. Not really. I was plenty mad at you.”

“Yeah,” says Merlin, pushing his shoulder back, and Arthur lets him. “I know. You were an arse. I was going to leave, you twat.”

Arthur rolls back on his side, and gives Merlin the death stare. “Not allowed. End of.”

“Yes, m’lord,” says Merlin, and pushes him again, and this time Arthur doesn’t roll with it. “I’m noticing that you’re not being an arse any more.”

“Yes, well,” says Arthur. “I realised that you’re just not that complicated. Or that clever. If you had been, you wouldn’t have stuck around to do your magic thing against whatever those were.”

“The Wild Hunt,” says Merlin, evenly, with an eyebrow up, waiting for Arthur to react. 

“Whatever. You’d have left. You’d have left all those people. You’d have left me, if that was all you were doing. You’d have saved your scrawny hide, and scarpered.” Arthur’s hand resumes its count of Merlin’s ribs, slowly tracing down to his waist. “You didn’t.”

“Yeah, well,” says Merlin, watching his hand on Arthur’s face, his cheek, “I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, “So you’re Emrys. And you have magic.”

“Yeah,” says Merlin, letting his fingers map down Arthur’s neck, and feeling the stubble, rough against his fingers, rough and real.

“And you’re in love with me,” says Arthur, watching his mouth carefully. Merlin can feel it, all of it, washing over him, like a cool wave of water, and him surfacing up through it, clean and free of the pressure weighing him down.

“I don’t think I have any more secrets,” says Merlin. “Can we fuck now?”

“Works for me,” says Arthur, and tugs him over on top of him. Arthur’s mouth is hot and sweet, and thoroughly intoxicating, and Merlin lets himself be intoxicated. Gives in to the impulse to press Arthur’s hands up by his head, to bite down on the bruise he’d left hours ago, suck it deep until Arthur moans, in the back of his throat, baring it in invitation for more, shivering when Merlin traces his collarbones with his tongue. 

Then there’s the bit that should be awkward, of getting the clothes off, but it isn’t awkward. It’s like Merlin has muscle memory, of knowing how to slip Arthur’s shirt up his body, and off his arms, with the briefest of interruptions, and Arthur knows exactly how to arch up so that pants can be removed post haste. 

And then there’s the skin. There’s so much of it. He can feel all Arthur’s body arcing up against him, hardness against his own. Arthur is making all these little whimpers, and it’s so much better than last time, that Merlin’s half way to gone even before he means to be, even before he can work his hands in between them, to make him make more of those noises, louder. 

He would stop, he truly would, he had had plans. All the things that Arthur didn’t allow last time, he wants to try now. Explore Arthur’s body as ruthlessly and relentlessly as he’d explored Merlin’s, repay the favour, as it were, except that Arthur’s hands have his arse firmly held, fingers digging in, so that Merlin has nowhere to go but to buck hard down into Arthur’s firmness and that’s something all in itself, and when coupled with the way in which Arthur’s writhing beneath him, he’s not stopping now. 

Plans can be rewritten. He would rewrite them, too, except that he’s busy. He’s occupied totally by the way in which Arthur’s got his head thrown back, half into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, biting at his lip, and his chin is right there, right there, and Merlin bites it, and with a startled gasp, Arthur’s gone, tipping over the edge, and it’s the sound of that, as much as the way in which Arthur’s rutting against him that takes Merlin into the zone of no return, and he throws his head back, and blindly holds fast to Arthur’s shoulders and lets the river take him too. 

When he comes back to himself, Arthur’s pushing at him, rolling him over onto his own back. Laughing. 

“That wasn’t,” gasps Arthur, “in any way magical.”

“Thanks?” says Merlin, feeling a little offended. 

“No, I mean, fuck, it was excellent. No supernatural involvement. Thoroughly good. Ten out of ten, recommend.”

“Would try again?”

“Fuck yes. Sorry, it’s been a while.”

Merlin buries his face in his hands. “I was there, remember. I know exactly how long it’s been.”

There’s a kiss on his shoulder. “Your eyes turn golden, did you know?”

Merlin laughs, but doesn’t take his hands down. 

“Yeah, we’re definitely doing that again. Gods, I love you. Come back here,” says Arthur, and Merlin’s hands are being tugged down, and he’s being pulled back into Arthur’s embrace, Arthur’s elbow crooked around his head, cradled Merlin against his chest, and for no reason that he can immediately determine, Merlin’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There now. Merlin feels better. There was a lot of catharsis. We are now in the third act, gods help us all. At least Merlin and Arthur are on the same page again. The same lazy sex page, because they're both pretty tired, but the same page nonetheless.
> 
> There will be happy endings and possibly more energetic sex. Eventually. Just, you know, not yet. 
> 
> This chapter brought to you by:  
> To Heal (Underworld)  
> Wish you were here (Pink Floyd)  
> Aurora (Foo Fighters)  
> Powa (Tune-Yards)


	17. On the road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, this is basically exposition and smut. The fellas got a bit handsy. Sorry, not sorry.

The bus is suspiciously silent, as they drive. There’s no yellow green aura to it, there’s nothing at all, save for the protective spells, these ones cast by Mordred, under Merlin’s supervision, while the Pendragons visit their father. He’s no better for it, he’s still under, and, according to Mordred, likely to stay that way, until he fades completely into the night, the purple hued death mask fitting like a glove.

Morgana’s silent, and grim in the seat across from them. She’s been calculating, into the night, and Arthur with her, and there are wrinkles about her forehead that she usually smooths out, and a pinched look between her eyebrows. This stadium, they’d paid a deposit, and the venue manager won’t give it up, not even for Uther Pendragon being at death’s door. If they don’t do this one, he’s said, not only will he not give the deposit back, he’ll be suing. Merlin’s magic, he suspects, doesn’t work on lawyers. They have their own, special, breed of charms, with which he does not truck. Leeds, and then Edinburgh, and then they’d see what’s what. 

Lot’s taking another week, Morgana says. For that, there’s a fix. 

For Agravaine’s absence, on the other hand, there isn’t. Gwaine can take a stab at percussion, it’s a fecking tamborine, he says, tubular fecking bells, and what not, and what is there to it, but put to the proof, he’s distractable, he’s inclined to drag, or speed, as he feels he needs, and that’s not, as Arthur says, Bane’s sound. Merlin doesn’t even bother suggesting a drum machine. That’d do Uther in, when he hears of it, and he will hear of it, sure as eggs. There’s no option, however, not now. Morgana rings some people, but no one’s free, or if they are, they’re not admitting it. 

Hence, somewhere in the back of the bus, Gwaine is tapping Slumber of the Dead, one of Bane’s early hits, on the back of everyone’s seats, arrhythmically, and Lance is absently strumming, one of the later ones, Invitation to Heavy and it’s driving Merlin slightly mad, because neither of them are listening to each other, and it’s overlapping in the kind of way that creates bad. Nothing about today is conducive to calm. 

Nothing, except for Arthur, who’s currently asleep on his shoulder, mouth open, and snoring. His hair is soft against Merlin’s cheek, much softer than it has any right to be, soft as the down feathers that had spilt out of the split pillow that they hid under the bed. There’d been a shower, cool against the evening warm breeze, in which he’d washed it, combing the fine strands from their tangle, bending Arthur down to him, and wiping the water from his face, and then watching him tip it back under the flow, muscles slack, and loose under Merlin’s hands, soft as butter. Then, of course, Merlin had managed to get water up his own nose, failing to resist the urge to lick at it, and he’d sputtered and snorted like the littlest baby piglet that ever there was, Merls, I swear only you, and the moment had gone, whatever it had been.

Then, there’d been the outside world, and talking to people who weren’t Arthur, which was much less fun. Mordred had clomped on to him, like a poddy calf, like Merlin was the last thing in the world that made sense anymore, Merlin and Morgana, and he was unwilling to let Merlin out of his sight. Just in case. Just in case of what, Merlin didn’t want to ask, because there were too many wrong answers. Even now, Mordred is, every five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour, popping his head over the bus seat with an unsure expression, just popping his head over, looking at Arthur, asleep, looking at Merlin and asking him, silently, is he alright. Is there anything Mordred can do? Merlin’s got an answer for the first bit, and he gives it to Mordred, he’s as right as rain, as good as he can be, all things allowing. He’s proud of Mordred, and he’s glad that if it all had to happen, that Mordred was there. For the second bit, there’s no real answer. The Hunt will be back, at some point. Bane will implode, at some point. Uther will die, at some point. It’s anyone’s guess which will happen first. He tells Mordred to get some sleep, and the head bops back down, out of sight.

He takes his own advice, and closes his eyes, letting his cheek rest back down on Arthur’s head. His magic’s firm in his gut, and full. When he’s thinking about Arthur, he’s happy. It’s just that there are a great deal of other things he needs to think about, during this bus ride, that he’d prefer not to be thinking about. 

Rhiannon didn’t come. Now that he’s back on his own two legs, and out of the shonky hotel room, he’s thinking more about that. He had a compact with her, no matter how ill defined. She’d certainly taken what she’d wanted, put Arthur through his paces and then some, and she hadn’t come. Which meant something. Arthur’s going to sing, he said. He’d told his father, Morgana had said, in that room of oxygen and tubes, pumps, and strange chemical smells, but he hadn’t woken up. The nurses had shooed him off the bed, and out of the room, and Uther hadn’t woken up. Merlin knows better than to ask about Uther, and so he doesn’t. Morgana said that there were press photographers trying to get up, and Norwich wasn’t very happy with them. Which is fair. There were a gang of them about the bus this morning, and Arthur’d given an interview, which the rest of the Bane had watched from the bus. 

Morgana and he had written it, while Merlin watched, fortified with whiskey. A part of the Bane, Arthur would say, would always be part of Norwich. The police were investigating, and as soon as they were told anything, the press would have it too. Uther was doing well, but still in intensive care. Yes, they would be rethinking their tour plans, after Edinburgh, but the Bane would never want to let their fans down. Merlin could see him doing it, with the smile, the one that photographers loved, and making sure his hair sat just so, and being generally ridiculous in the way that only Arthur could, and the press charmed in only the way that Arthur made them.

Then, Arthur had gotten on the bus, and looked him in the eye, and he could see, with the smile wiped clean, just for an instant, the hollowness. Then the smile was back, and he was gently tugging his sister to her feet, and addressing the bus with the same fervour.

Merlin had tuned the contents out, it was all the things they’d said before, all the words of reassurance, and confidence, and let’s all pull together, for the love of the Bane, the little mini version of Uther that Arthur was always wont to slip into when he was unsure. He’d tuned out the voice, and looked at Morgana, and looked hard. That was the face of someone who knew that doom was waiting around the corner, not someone who’d just avoided it. She’d Dreamt, again. Tonight, perhaps, after the fuck up that this was bound to be, he’d ask her to tell him, she was always better after that, and then she could sleep properly. 

But first, there was the day to get through. With his eyes closed, he could feel better, a trick from below, to avoid the glamours of the Sidhe. He could sense better, really, what was about him, that is, once he disregarded the blaze of gold, beside him, had Arthur always been that bright? Morgana that brilliant green? Mordred that purple? Everything was just a bit more technicolour than was comfortable, and he’d have to think about that, just, not right now. When he had time. Disregarding all of that, which took a little doing, he examined his surroundings. Agravaine was long gone, there was nary a hint to be found. Stretching his sight further, probably further than was good for him, he was not anywhere in this part of the country. Pushing further still, nowhere in the country at all. It could be that he had hopped a boat, a plane, a train to lands distant. Or it could be that he was nowhere above land at all. Concern number one.

Concern number two, flanking the bus, about it in an arc, Rhiannon’s birds. A mixed flock, and not subtle, birds that should not be flying together, save that they were. Ravens, black and glossy, flying with magpies, and wrens fluttering about, specks of white with his eyes closed to them, and further out still, and wasn’t Rhiannon the funny one, merlins, five of them all in a star formation, flanking the bus in protection. Rhiannon’s mantle, now that he looked, was about them all. Not only Merlin, not only Arthur, but the entire bus. He’d have been touched, save that she’d not bothered before. Which meant what?

Concern number three, at a distance that made his eyes squint and something at the back of his head throb, was what the birds were shielding the bus from. The Hunt was riding, even though it was full daylight. Somehow, somewhen in there, the year had crept around to the end of July, and with it, Gwyn’s power had risen too. He could feel the blackness of it, at the edge of his sight, black frost and burning with it. He shook free, and back into himself, and in so doing, dislodged Arthur, who woke with a start, and looked at him sternly.

“What,” said Arthur quietly, “was that?”

“Would you believe,” said Merlin equally quietly, “that I was listening for woodworm?”

“Ha,” said Arthur, “bloody ha.”

“Shh,” said Merlin, patting his shoulder invitingly. “Sleep some more. You’ll need it for tonight.”

“Mm,” said Arthur, running his finger into Merlin’s scarf and pulling him closer. “I like the sound of that.”

“The concert, you prat,” said Merlin, allowing himself to be pulled, on the principle that even if he had three mighty concerns on his plate, and Morgana’s dreams to listen to, one should always eat one’s dessert first, when one is likely to have a difficult day ahead. 

“Mmm,” said Arthur. “let’s not talk about the concert. Let’s, just, not talk.” There was more tugging, and then Arthur moved his finger up, and traced around Merlin’s mouth, watching intently, biting his own.

“Your sister is literally over there. She’s less than a metre away.”

“I think you’re focussing on the wrong Pendragon, Merls. I’m even closer than that.”

“How can you be, all, you know, like this, when you know tonight’s going to be a nightmare?” Merlin’s going a little cross-eyed, trying to keep Arthur in focus, as he moves closer, and he squirms back, just a little. Arthur’s eyes narrow, in the same way a falcon focusses on its prey before the drop, and in the same way, he swoops in, target Merlin’s mouth, and it’s a couple of minutes before Merlin remembers that he was talking about something, because all his nerve endings are on fire, and he’s half in Arthur’s lap, driving at seventy down the motorway, like some sex crazed teenager that he never was. 

“Really, Merlin,” says Gwen leaning over from behind Morgana, but she’s smiling and Morgana doesn’t even bother looking, and Merlin can’t bring himself to care, as he climbs back into his own seat. 

“Tonight’s going to be a nightmare, sure,” says Arthur, putting his hand way very much too high on Merlin’s leg for Merlin to think much further about his three mighty concerns, at least not coherently. “But we’ve already done one nightmare. Possibly two, depending on how you define them. We’ve got lots of nightmares waiting on us. Now,” says Arthur, moving his hand higher still, and tracing up Merlin’s inside leg seams, “we could, if you really wanted to, spend that time worrying. You could tell me all about scary spooky fucking warriors of the dead,”

“Of the underworld,” corrects Merlin, and Arthur puts his finger on Merlin’s lips, removing it from the very interesting place it had been.

“Or wherever. And I could tell you about tonight I’m going to let my dad down, and the band’s going to implode, but you already know that, and it fucking sucks, and I’ve got no choice. So, can we, just, you know. Pretend. Today’s a travel day like any other, and tonight, the Bane plays like normal, and none of our fans are dead, and I can take you to bed without worrying that the underworld, or the gods, are going to ride one of us like a pony. I want to ride you like a pony, come to think of it, but these bus seats won’t allow it. “

Arthur’s hand drops down to Merlin’s lap, and Merlin bites his lip, hard. There’s at least an hour left on this bus, and Arthur’s going to kill him stone dead before the trip is over. His hand is tracing up and down Merlin’s cock, not enough pressure to write home about, but just enough pressure that Merlin’s still not thinking straight. 

“I want to pretend that this weekend, we’re going to go home to London, and we’re going to the pub. A normal pub, where people don’t sing karaoke. We’ll go to the park, and kick around a ball, and you’ll trip over your own feet, and cheat with magic when you think I’m not looking. You’ll call your mam, because you haven’t, have you, and I’ll sneak a listen of your music when you’re out on the balcony, and Aithusa’ll let me because I’m nicer than you. D’you think anyone’d notice if I went down on you now?”

Merlin tugs Arthur’s head back up, hand slightly too hard on the back of his neck, and Arthur’s grin is broad and cheeky. 

“No,” says Merlin sternly, although there’s a little upturned bit of his grin that belies the sternness. “I mean, yes. I mean stop that.”

Arthur doesn’t, not really, but his hand drops further down Merlin’s leg, which is both good, in that Merlin can think again, and bad, because see above re Merlin’s thought processes. 

“We’ll have the gang over, and play music, until it’s too late for everyone to go home, and they’ll crash on the sofas, and the spare beds, and then I’ll take you to bed.”

Merlin’s lip is starting to hurt, just a little, from how he’s biting it. Gwen and Morgana appear to be asleep. 

“Oh, how unfortunate,” Merlin says. “My jumper appears to have fallen upon your lap.”

The jumper takes its cue, and Arthur raises an eyebrow inquiringly. Merlin raises his eyebrow right back, and Arthur bites his lip in return. 

“I cannot believe that I am doing this. You are a terrible, terrible man, Arthur Pendragon,” says Merlin, and slides his hand into Arthur’s lap, under the jumper, with nowhere near the circumlocution that Arthur had practiced. Arthur’s hard, desperately hard, and he jumps slightly, as Merlin presses against him. Rubs, just a little, just for fun, and watches Arthur’s eyes slide shut, and his mouth slide open. Then, with his other hand, he makes sure he has a firm grip on Arthur’s other hand, currently leaving imprints on his thigh. He doesn’t have any other convenient jumpers. 

“Keep talking,” says Merlin, more of a suggestion than a question, because the way this month is going, he doubts very much that they’re ever going to make it back to Arthur’s flat, let alone Arthur’s lovely bed, and the cupboards full of diet velvet shirts, and sex without the shadows of death hanging over them. Arthur’s fantasy, as simultaneously domestic and warped as it is, is nice. It’s sweet. It’s vaguely wholesome. He wonders what will happen if he unzips Arthur’s pants.

“You can’t do that, Merlin. We’re still on the bus. Someone’ll hear us,” gasps Arthur, but Merlin notes he’s not exactly stopping him either. 

“Better be quiet, then,” says Merlin, slightly shocked at himself, but to be fair, Arthur started it. Just to be sure, he casts a little one of his no-see-me spells. When he flicks a look up, Gwen’s asleep on Morgana’s shoulder, and Morgana’s head is tipped back in the seat, asleep too. 

He’ll just have to be quick, that’s all. He curls his hand around Arthur’s cock, hard and hot, and it’s good, but it’s not enough. 

“Merlin,” says Arthur, and it’s more a whine, as Merlin takes his hand out of the nest.

“Shh,” says Merlin, licking his hand, and putting it back in. That’s better, although it’s not as good as it could be. He wonders if he knows any spells for lube. He thinks really hard about slickness, until his fingers feel it, and then it’s easier. Slippery, and Merlin looks at Arthur sternly, as he grips hard enough to feel Arthur’s pulse in his own, and slowly, just fast enough, starts to move. “Finish the story.” Arthur’s pupils are blown wide, and there’s flush on his neck, down into the line of his shirt.

“I,” says Arthur, “I shouldn’t have started it. I’m very sorry. Just, don’t fucking stop. Please.”

Merlin smiles, and stops, holding Arthur firm in his hand, but not quite firm enough, and Arthur’s squirming now, thrusting up with his hips in an effort for friction, any friction. “Finish the story, Arthur,” he says gently, leaning in for a kiss, just a gentle one, on the side of his mouth, rubbing the inside of Arthur’s wrist, and he can’t quite tell, when he pulls back, how much trouble he’s going to be in later, but he’s not regretting it, not the way Arthur’s breathing now.

“Fuck,” says Arthur, looking at Merlin’s mouth as he pulls away, and then Merlin’s chest, and then down to Merlin’s lap, and finally at what Merlin’s doing in his own, and Merlin can feel how hard he is, how close, and he starts to move his hand again, sliding up and down, nice and easy, allowing his finger to swirl about its head, and back again. Nice and hard. Feels Arthur’s hips stutter up in response. 

“And we’re in my room, and, and even though we shouldn’t because it’s too late, and we’re too tired,” and Arthur looks at Merlin’s chest, his lap again, like he’s checking. 

Merlin arches his back against the seat, feeling Arthur’s gaze like he’s the one being touched, all the way down to his own cock, throbbing against the seam of his jeans. “And you’re all keyed up from the music, the way you get. All arrogant and bossy.”

“Me? You’d be all in my face, all full of yourself, like you get when you know you’ve done great. Like you know you have me, at the end of your fingers, any way you want me,” Arthur half gasps out, “Like you know how much I want you. Gods, Merlin, don’t fucking stop.”

“I’m not stopping, you prat,” says Merlin, speeding up, just a bit, just enough, feeling Arthur arch up against him, into his fist.

“I’m going to fuck you until you want to scream, but you can’t, because our friends are over, and you’ve got to keep quiet, and I’m going to watch you come, fuck. Merlin.”  
Arthur falling apart, all mouth open, and achingly vulnerable blue eye, helplessly falling into Merlin, is about the best thing that’s ever happened, even quietly, even if everything else is collapsing. It seems to go on for ages, and the jumper’s probably lost, but fuck it. He’s due a wash anyway. He didn’t know Arthur could be that quiet, that compliant under his fingers. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.   
Even better, no one’s woken up, no prying eyes to see them acting like teenagers. They’ve gotten away with it. 

After, when Arthur’s come back to himself, he bites Merlin’s shoulder hard, sucks a little bruise into it, and Merlin laughs, just a bit. 

“Yeah, that,” says Arthur. “Not a coward, then.”

“Half an hour, and we’ll be there,” says Merlin. “Go back to sleep.”

When he closes his eyes, as Arthur’s head slides back onto the shoulder, shivers down his spine, he can still see the birds, flying their phalanx. Further out, the Hunt. There’s trouble out there, waiting for them, but at the moment, inside this bus, the nest of it, the cradle is soft and warm, and they’re getting away with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may think that I am being overly soft and fuzzy because something bad is coming. You would be right.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by:  
> Sit Down (James)  
> The King is Half-Undressed (Jellyfish)  
> I Wanna Stay Home (Jellyfish)  
> Blackbird (Beatles)  
> You're the voice (for the road trip vibes) (John Farnham)  
> Hide U (Kosheen)  
> One Touch (LCD Soundsystem)


	18. Uther's Bane / Arthur's Bane / Falling not flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Bane, without Uther, isn't quite what it used to be, and the boys go antiquing.

The local paper, the next morning, was scrupulously polite. Morgana was not. The Bane, from Arthur down to the lowliest stage hand, which was Mordred, looked appropriately abashed. It had not been good. It had been the opposite of good. It had been bad. It had been a car crash. It had been the debris left by a hurricane. All of it. Uther would have shouted. Uther would have rubbed at the bristle of his shaved head, and had profanities and curses for all of them top to bottom. He might have even thrown a chair. Possibly a guitar.

Morgana sat on the edge of a spoilt yellow hotel plush armchair, in one of her plunging black shirts, and immaculate wavey hair, and looked disappointed, which Merlin thought was a thousand times more devastated. Possibly because he loved Morgana, and felt much less kindly towards Uther. Even if he was at death’s door. He had a suspicion that the rest of the Bane felt likewise, because everyone he looked at was examining their hands like they’d personally offended Morgana, and wished to atone for their sins, whereas after and immediately before a good Uther shout, heads were held high, and faces as flat as slapped herrings, because otherwise Uther would shout more, they’d learnt. He tried not to look like he deserved a shouting. He’d done his best, after all, within the limited confines Arthur had given him, which was that he was not to do anything beyond the sound levels. Which was, frankly, not fair. He could have fixed it. He could have made them sound like Bane ought. He could have made them sound better. 

“You’ve played these songs a million times, my little ones. Please try to make it sound a little better than used toilet paper. Gwaine, I think you can be excused. We’ll unplug your mikes, and you can just stand on the stage and look pretty, you do that supremely well.”

Gwaine flipped his hair back, and only looked slightly affronted. “I don’t know that Bane audiences really come for all of this, but happy to do what I can.”

“Arthur, I don’t know what to say. Are you trying to channel Uther? Is that what that is? Less eyeliner, I think, and put your shirt back on. No cape. Just sing the songs, and make it sound a little more than wet cardboard, if you can. Anything, honestly, would be better than last night. Ride out, my beautiful brother, and make it sound like you want to be there? I’d appreciate it. I’m sure the audience would appreciate it.”

Arthur took it on the chin. “We all, I think, need to take a breath. Let’s take the morning, yeah? Go find whatever the fair town of Leeds has to offer, get back here by two, we’ll run the afternoon, and tonight, I’m sure it’ll come good. No drugs, Percy. No trouble, people. Back here by two. Thanks, Morgana.”

Morgana looked at Arthur, hard, but she waited for the lounge to clear. 

“Hadn’t quite finished, Art.”

Arthur sighed, and leaned back into the uncomfortable yellow. “Wouldn’t have helped. Tonight’s going to be shit again. We just need a solid week to get into the groove. Play with the new line up, without dad.”

“We don’t have a week, Arthur,” said Morgana, lips tight. “We don’t even have a day. We have a contractual commitment, and right now, I’m concerned that there won’t be enough bums in seats to fulfil it.”  
Arthur leant forward, as if he was going to say something, and then sat back again, the sofa cushions squelching about him unpleasantly. “Nothing I can do about it, now, is there? I can’t force them to play better. That’s not how it works. We’ll play through this afternoon, and then we’ll play tonight. Then we’ll get in the bus and get to Edinburgh, and we’ll play there too, and then we’ll snip it short, back to London, and see dad. End of the day, it’s his call. I can’t change the line up now.”

“Gods, such a mess,” sighed Morgana. “You know what would sell tickets? Gwaine without a shirt playing his trumpet.”

Merlin laughed. “Yeah, and you and Gwen and Lance doing that doo wop thing you do.”

“The three bass boys playing the Peter Gunn theme to Elyan’s interpretive dance.” Arthur wiggled his eyebrows.

“Lance and you, playing over the Emrys bass track.” Morgana said, looking up from her phone. 

“You’re just torturing me now, aren’t you,” said Merlin. “I’m going to be sat there tonight, listening to angry rock music played by you lot pretending to be angry rock musicians, and thinking about what it could be like. So not fair.”

“I live to annoy you,” said Arthur, smiling, a little. “Heard from the hospital yet?”

“No,” said Morgana. “They’re to call at 11. I’ll let you know. Go for a walk, leave the hotel, god knows I’m going to, this place is vile. I need to think about something. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“C’mon,” said Arthur, “You heard the lady, Merlin. No vile hotel for us this morning. We’re going antiquing.”

Merlin allowed himself to be pulled up off the floor, as Morgana strode away, hips swaying and black ruffles ruffling. “You are kidding, right? Antiquing is some sort of code, right?”

“No,” said Arthur. “I saw a good shop down the road. It’s distracting, I think. A bit like a quest. There could be anything in there, Merlin. All that history, all those past lives. Isn’t it thrilling?”

“No.” 

“Oh, c’mon. Dad loves a good antique letter opener, it’ll cheer him up.”

“Nah, don’t fancy it.”

“It’s sweet that you think you have a choice. I’ll take you for Nando’s after.”

Merlin reluctantly allowed himself to be tugged out of the door. The hotel was worse, if that was possible from the outside, all peeling paint, and crumbling concrete, all natural decay at least, no tangled auras. Pigeons, many pigeons, milling about the garbage pile, cooing, and bobbing at each other. There was something though, more than Arthur’s calloused hand on his, pulling him forward. Something connected to the back of his spine, maybe, almost visible. There was a little park, next to the hotel, through which he was dragged also, and then a high street. There was a lot of dragging.

Arthur was talking, he realised after a minute, but it wasn’t sounding. There was a ringing in his ears, like he’d been too close to the speakers last night, like a deep bell. “Hurry up, Arthur,” he said, pulling ahead.

There was a lighter ting, as the shop door hit the actual bell, and Merlin only noticed it because it clashed with the one in his ear. 

“Merlin, what the actual,” – said Arthur, and Merlin held up his hand.

“This way,” he said, surging through the piles of prints, and brass goblets that made up the front third of the hall. Past the faux-Georgian dark wooden furniture, and the tin toy car display, and beyond the Toby jugs, and into the dim recesses of the shop. A place that was entirely scented by mothballs, and lit by dust motes, and Arthur sneezed behind him, but Merlin was on a mission, and only remarked that he should have taken his anti-histamines, like a sensible person instead of insisting on his lie-in.

“I can’t, quite,” said Arthur “see what you’re getting so worked up about. You didn’t even want to come ten minutes ago.”

“It’s under here,” Merlin said, shuffling boxes out of the way, intent on the sound, which was becoming more and more insistent. “I can hear it. Can’t you?”

Arthur looked bemused. 

“Never mind,” said Merlin. “I have it.” He pulled out a black battered case, as triumphantly as if it were a sword from a stone. 

“I think dad has enough guitars, don’t you?” said Arthur, as patiently as he could.

“This isn’t for him, you prat. It’s yours. Or it will be, once I pay for it.”

“How, ah, nice. Thanks.”

“Shut up,” said Merlin. “You’ll take it and you’ll like it.”

“Oh,” said Arthur, crowding in on him, and forcing Merlin back up against a no doubt priceless if they broke it bookshelf in which many a set of porcelain tea cup was hiding. “will I.”

“Yes?” said Merlin, slightly confused. “I mean, I think Gwen’s probably going to have to do some work on it, but then you’ll like it.”

“Gwen? I don’t quite see how she’s involved. I mean, is she handing you a drink at half time? Towelling me down?”

“No? Arthur. Oh. Yes,” said Merlin, crowding Arthur back against another bookshelf, with what he hoped was a suitably lustful look in his eye. “You’ll take it, and, and, you’ll like it. I’m going to –“

“Gentleman,” said a voice from the front of the shop, in a reproachful tone. “Can I help you.”

They both turned around, Arthur flushing quite red, Merlin narrowly avoiding a tea set with the guitar case. 

“Just this,” said Merlin, smiling innocently, and handing over the ten pounds price. 

“Oh, great,” said the proprietor. “We’ll eat well tonight.” 

“Thanks ever so,” said Arthur, dragging Merlin out of the shop. “Merlin, could you be any more ridiculous? Propositioning me in an antique shop. I blush for you.”

“Oh, you’ll do a lot more than that, mate,” said Merlin, attempting a leer, and failing miserably. “No, Arthur, look. At the guitar case, not my parts, goodness.”

Arthur did look. Arthur shrugged. “Am I missing something?”

Merlin looked. The golden glow about the case had not dissipated one iota. He rubbed the dust from the brown label, to show the brand CALI, and the tag line, pick me up.   
“I thought you were all, you know, learned about guitars and things. This is, god, Gwen goes on about this often enough. And for a tenner? Amazing. You’re going to love this. Wait till we get back to the hotel, and I’ll show you.”

“But,” said Arthur protestingly. “chicken.”

Merlin considered. “We’ll get it to go.”

At the hotel, Gwen was suitably impressed. “Oh my god, Merlin. I never thought I’d get my hands on one of these. It’s beautiful. It’s going to be glorious. Arthur, you’ve got to know, this is something really quite special.”

The guitar was, indeed, lovely. It was also incredibly garish in bright red, and the victim of past abuse, frets damaged, and some wood panels needing replacement, but Gwen looked past those superficial lessenings, and to the soul of it, and loved it immediately. 

“Oh, well,” said Arthur. “Thanks very much Merlin. I shall treasure it always. I mean, after Gwen’s finished with it.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Merlin. “Give me the chicken, you berk.”

Gwen disappeared, and the guitar with her, and the chicken was consumed, and Arthur and the Bane disappeared into cacophony, having, it seemed, determined that the key tonight would be to just give everything more everything.

Merlin found himself grabbed, again, by the other Pendragon, and once again dragged from the hotel. 

“I have to talk to you,” said Morgana. “I’m really a bit worried.”

“Yes,” said Merlin, “I get it. Your dad, Agravaine, the Bane. It’s a lot.”

“No,” said Morgana, depositing him at a seat in the little park near the hotel. “It’s not that. I keep having this dream.” 

“Oh,” said Merlin. “If it’s the one about flying, I know that one. The key is stop before you fall.”

“Very droll,” said Morgana, pinching his chin. “It’s Rhiannon.”

“Fuck,” said Merlin. The pigeons settled on the ground around them, expectantly. “Let’s go to the pub. I can’t face this without a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by   
> "Waiting on a War" (Foo Fighters)  
> "Tea in the Sahara" (The Police)


	19. Morgana's dream, and Rhiannon's story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgana tells Merlin her dreams, and Merlin flips out. With justification. Much drama unfolds.

“I thought,” said Merlin, “that you’d got the dreams under control.”

“I had,” said Morgana, sipping her G&T. “I had, I really had. Then, you know. That night. I thought, if anything, I would dream of Uther, and his death, but I haven’t. Not once. I think, in my head, he’s gone already, and I suspect after Edinburgh, I’m going to have a conniption to end all conniptions. He’s gone, but he’s not. I don’t know, quite, what I’m going to do with myself, when I’m truly fatherless. So much of my life, there’s a shape around what Uther wants, and I don’t know how it’ll unfold when he’s gone. I think my dreams know that. This one, though, it’s been a regular visitor. An unwelcome one. I want it gone. You said talking about it would help. I think I don’t have a choice, any more. If I ever did. She won’t leave me alone.”

Merlin took a deep pull from his beer. “I don’t need to be sober for tonight. It’ll probably help not to be. Go for Merlin, I’m listening.”

She started to dissect the coaster that sat in front of her. “I know it’s her, in the dream. And I know I know the men. But I can’t see the faces.”

“Prophecy,” said Merlin, putting his hand over hers. “is always like this. Always. They like, I think, to mess with your head. Make it something you’re involved in, so that they can say that you did it wrong, when it goes wrong. And it always goes wrong, when we get tangled up with them. This is going to go wrong. I mean, more wrong. We’re at the crest of the wave, and it’s going to crash. Only question is when.”

Morgana stared at him, mouth slightly open. 

“Don’t look at me like that. I told you, didn’t I? I’ve done my time below. I’m hers, by oath. Doesn’t mean that I think that only nice things are going to happen to me. Sometimes, things get worse, and they don’t get better. I know that. Destiny has a way of getting there, and it doesn’t much care who gets squashed along the way.”

Morgana blinked and closed her mouth. “I’m going to tell you anyway. Then it can screw with your head as well as mine.”

Merlin shrugged. “Fire away. You bought me a drink, I’m not going anywhere.”

“There’s a good lad.” Morgana gave him a muted smile. “And thank you for making Arthur happy again. I mean, as happy as he can be. At the moment. What with Uther and all.”

Merlin smiled into his beer and then looked up at her, smile gone. “Stop stalling. Get it out, and we’ll see if you feel better.”

Morgana took a deep breath in, and let it out again, a turned her glass around on the coaster. Then she looked over Merlin’s shoulder, and began. 

“There once were three men, as close as brothers, for all the good that did them. They fought as often as they laughed, and they laughed as often as they breathed. One was tall and handsome, and all the girls sought his favour, although he sought the favour of none but his beloved. One was cunning and wise, and delighted in his own knowledge, although it did him no good. And the last was always hungry for love, and never satisfied with what he received.”

“So far,” said Merlin, “pretty normal. Not terribly concerned. And you can’t see their faces?”

“No,” said Morgana. “They look familiar, like I should know them, but it’s a dream, and doesn’t that always happen to you? I know it does to me. Now listen,” and she went on.

“They found themselves in a forest, dark and deep, one afternoon. They had ridden out there, to seek inspiration, and, if the truth be owned, they had lost their way. There was a glade, and a sunlit circle of stones, and they thought it as good a place as any to take their rest, and play their tunes. The stones were warm in the sunshine, and hummed as they played, hummed in resonance with their instruments, and thrummed to their voices, and they thought none were there to hear them.”

“Can you see their horses? Their instruments?”

“It’s blurred. It’s like I know that that’s how they are there, what they’re doing, but I can’t see it. I’ve tried, Merlin, I have. It’s like a film, where it blurs out to the bit you’re meant to focus on. Listen.”

“They played for some time, and found that the light had fled, alongside their music, but they cared not. They played until their fingers were raw, and then they found themselves no longer alone.   
In the centre of the circle, they espied a fine lady, and fine indeed was she. She had deep black hair, as dark as the forest, and it curled down her back to her seat. She had fine cheekbones, as delicate and sharp as any bird, and limbs as lithe as any horse, and her bosom was fine to behold, ‘neath a dress as delicate as any feathered thing, and she wore an expression of sadness, sore grievous to look upon.”

“And that’s Rhiannon,” said Merlin. “I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Morgana. “I expect you’re right. There’s more. Now don’t interrupt, because I won’t be able to remember it right. Rhiannon wants you to hear it, I think.”

Merlin took a pull of his beer and set it down. “I’m listening, I promise.”

Morgana took a matching sip of hers, and set it back on the frayed coaster.

“Lady,” the last of the men asked, heedless of danger, “what troubles you? We shall help, if we can.”

She turned her eyes full on him, and he trembled, not quite in fear, for her eyes were as deep brown as the forest about him, and ringed entirely in gold, as wild as any wild animal that lurked about them, as wild and haunted as they could be, and he desired to keep her eyes on him as long as he might.

“My horse,” she said, at length, speaking with a voice as soft and fair as any bird singing in the forest, “My good white stallion, as perfect as any you might find in any land, is lost to the forest, the forest and the Hunt rides tonight. If they ride, and he is not with me, he will be lost for good and all, and he is precious to me, as precious as any child could be, as precious as my own soul.”

“Lady,” the last of the men vowed, heedless of sense. “We shall not let the forest go unsearched. We shall find him, for you, or brave the Hunt ourselves to seek his return.”

The Lady regarded him with favour. “You are brave indeed. I shall bide here, and await your return.”

Then she disappeared from their view, with a noise much like wings, and none of them saw how she went, although they all regarded well where she ought to have been, and they understood now with whom they had been dealing, for it was Rhiannon, of the lands below.”

“They made a compact,” said Merlin. “Whoever they were, they made a promise to Rhiannon. Foolish.”

Morgana shrugged. “It is what it is. Were they meant to just leave her in her sadness?”

Merlin shrugged. “Rhiannon has a thing about horses. It would have come back to her, eventually. Go on.”

“The men strode the forest, playing although their fingers bled, and arguing often whether that path, or this path, was the best to take, led only by the light of the moon that trickled beneath the leaves of the woods. At length, they came upon a fine horse indeed, a fine white horse that glowed in the moonlight, and who came to them and nuzzled into their hands, as long as they played, and so they did not cease. The horse followed them, as they traced their steps, over rocks and roots, and into the glade in which they had played, and there, again, they found Rhiannon, she of the white hands, and the dark hair.” 

“She is beautiful, indeed,” said Merlin. “But then again, most of those below are. Not all, but most.”

Morgana shook her head slightly, so that her black hair rippled on her shoulder, and her beautiful green eyes flashed.

“Don’t start, Morgana. Goddesses don’t like comparisons. Let’s not stir her up any more. You’re gorgeous entirely. Go on, then.”

Morgana sniffed, and did as she was asked. 

“When she saw them, and saw her horse once more, she clapped her hands in delight, and smiled upon them, and was well pleased. 

“Lady,” the men said to her, “your horse is returned to you.”

“I wish to give you a thing. I will make a bargain with you,” she said, in her voice as soft and penetrating as any robin. “I will give you that which you desire most, for a price that I think most fair, if you will have that of me.”

The men were bold, then, and heedless of risk.”

“Yeah,” said Merlin. “I told you. Compacts with goddesses, red flashing alarms. Let me guess, the way the dream unfolds, things didn’t go as planned.”

Morgana narrowed her eyes at him and continued. 

“Lady,” said the handsome one, “I desire above all things to have fame for my talents. I would that all thought me worthy and good, and loved by all, for that is what I love best.”

Rhiannon smiled. “And so you shall have it. And in return, I shall take that which loves you best, that you do not regard so well. She shall be loved, below.”

The handsome one sneered. “I regard my wife with favour. She will not be taken from me.”

Rhiannon looked at him with a blank expression. “We shall see,” she said, and turned to the next man.

“Lady,” said the avaricious one. “I desire to have my wits earn me money, to multiply it as one might multiply one’s family by having children, if one was so foolish as to sire them.”

Rhiannon smiled, although there was an edge to her smile. “So you shall. And in return, I shall take what you seem to despise, your first born. He shall be loved, below”

The avaricious one sneered. “Then I shall have none, and count it no loss.”

Rhiannon turned from him, and to the last of the men. “And what will you have of me, before I leave? Is it fame, or power, or money that you desire?”

The man spoke boldly. “I desire you. I desire a son by you, Rhiannon. For no woman could compare to your favour. None could compare to your beauty. You are apart from all other women, you are not like them.”

Rhiannon did not smile. “I am like all women, and all women are like me, but I have promised. I will give you a son, but in return, I shall give you this. No woman shall be constant to you, since you value them so cheap. And I say this to you, my son will not be denied his birthright, to live with me, should he so chose, you will not keep him from me.”

The man smiled, for he thought his bargain the cleverest of them all, as did each of his fellows. “

“Oh no,” said Merlin, half under his breath. “I don’t like the shape of this.”

“Yes,” said Morgana. “I know. What a thing to do. How arrogant would you have to be, to bargain for the bed of a goddess? Listen.” 

“The first man did indeed receive what he sought, for his fame swelled, as did his wife’s belly. But in nine months, as his babe was born, his wife passed from one world to another, and he knew it to be Rhiannon’s price. And the fame, and the glory, tasted as ashes in his mouth, and yet he could not stop pursuing it, for it was all that he had left. 

The second man did indeed receive what he sought, for as his friend’s fame rose, so too did his own fortune. But he found no person to his liking, and he knew it to be Rhiannon’s price. And the money became valueless in his eyes, and yet he could not stop pursuing it, for it was all that he had left.

The third man did indeed receive what he sought, for he spent a week or more in Rhiannon’s bed, for his pleasure and hers, and then he returned to his fellows, and he was summoned thither any number of times over the next year, and the next year, and several more. And although he was married, and had children in number, there was never a woman who wished to call him husband for longer than the space of year, and he knew it to be Rhiannon’s price. He did not, however, receive Rhiannon’s reward, until there was a day when a whole flock of birds arrived to his window in summons, and he went with them, in company with his fellows, to see his son. He was a fine baby, with Rhiannon’s eyes and Rhiannon’s hair, and he grasped his father’s fingers with might and vigour, and squalled louder than any crow. 

The third man was not minded to let Rhiannon keep him, for he had not found Rhiannon’s price to his liking. He stole Rhiannon’s child away, and hid him from her sight. So Rhiannon’s child grew up all unknowing, in the world of humans, and thinking himself one of them, and so Rhiannon grew even more sad, and desperate in her thoughts, for she had no other child of her own. Rhiannon would venture in search of her son, both above and below, for there were none below who knew where he could be, and there was no king above to restore him to her, to keep the balance, none who had performed the ancient rites, who had been the deer at the hunt, the salmon to the stream, the bird under the falcon’s wing, the seed at the harvest. None. And she would be followed, ever, by the Hunt, for the worlds were out of balance, and there was none to stop them.”

Morgana looked Merlin square in the eye. “None, Rhiannon said, to stop them.”

“I can’t stop the Hunt,” said Merlin. “Delay, yes. You saw the price. I can’t stop them. I’m no king.”

Morgana drank the rest of her drink down. 

“Oh gods,” said Merlin. “I’m no king, but I know what she’s doing.” He pushed his drink away. “She can’t do this to me. Only, she can. And she’s going to. And I don’t even blame her, not with a story like that. What a terrible thing to do to her. No wonder she’s been so desperate. Who steals a child? Who leaves a child without a mother, and a mother without her own?”

“Merlin.”

“I wouldn’t give us odds on getting through Lughnasa, that’s when they’ll rise again, when we’re in Edinburgh. It doesn’t matter what we do now, not really, because she’ll twist it into the shape she wants. She’s making a king, and she’s setting him against the Hunt. She’ll do whatever she has to, so that she can find her child. Except she won’t find him, because he’s long gone, whoever he was. You know what happens to parentless children in this day and age. He’s lost.”

Merlin stood, scraping his chair back on the pub floor, and forced his fists to unclench. 

“Merlin, I don’t understand.” Morgana stood, carefully setting down her glass.

“No, I expect you don’t. I can’t save him, Morgana. Not from this. Not from her.”

“You’re scaring me, Merlin. I don’t understand.”

“You should be scared. What happened back in Norwich, that was just the start. She’s taking Arthur, and she’s going to set him against the Hunt.”

Morgana blanched. “Arthur. Arthur can’t do this. I know my brother, and you know I love my brother, but there was nothing, nothing that he did, in the last thing, that stopped one ounce of them. Nothing. I’m cancelling the concert. You can take him somewhere safe. You can’t let this happen.”

Merlin gripped the back of the chair, and looked at his feet. “You think I can stop this? Morgana, it’s the Hunt. I told you, I can’t stop them. I can’t stop her. There is nowhere safe.” He wiped at his eyes, angrily. “There is nothing I can do to save him. If there was, I swear to you, I would do it.”

Morgana stood, scraping her chair deliberately. “I do not accept this. And you shouldn’t either. Uther’s not going to make it out of the week, they said. We’ve got to go back to London tomorrow, if we want to see him, not that he’ll know we’re there. I absolutely do not accept losing a parent and my brother in one go. I haven’t any idea how I’m going to come to terms with the first, let alone the second. You will, Merlin Rhys, spend the rest of July, coming up with a way out, or I will end you. I will fight the Hunt myself, and you know that’s not where my talent lies. My death will be on you, and before I die, much as I love you, I will end you also. Do you hear?”

Merlin half smiled, as he wiped his eyes dry again. “I would expect nothing less. It’s an honour to fight by your side, my lady. This time.”

“Shut up and don’t be weird,” said Morgana. “We’ve still got to get through tonight. I don’t suppose it matters, in the scheme of things, but I choose to think that it does. For Uther. Hell, for that matter, for Arthur. Do me a favour, and don’t tell him until after the concert. Mordred can bunk in with the pyros, I think he’s friends with them. Make it count.”

“I won’t tell him, if you cancel Edinburgh. I mean, for the fans. Arthur can put it to the band, once he knows, but you cancel it for the fans. Save them, Morgana. The Bane can wear the loss. You know I’m right.”

“You’re certain, that that’s when they’ll rise?”

“I can feel the shape of it, yes. I’d love to be wrong. I can feel them out there, Morgana. You can take the money out of my pay for the next however many years. I’d love it. I would love to be that wrong. But I’m not. You know I’m not.”

“You have yourself,” said Morgana, smiling not an iota at all, “a compact, Merlin Rhys.”

She held out her hand, for all the world like Rhiannon herself, as dainty as any princess, and Merlin shook it carefully. Then, as the pigeons scattered to the winds in witness, they returned to the hotel, and both, stony faced, listened to the Bane rehearse for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now in the end game. I would say, probably four or five more chapters. OH MY GODS I'M GETTING VERY EMOTIONAL HERE. 
> 
> This chapter brought to you by terrible pub muzak, and the Rolling Stones, Give Me Shelter. Because there is none.


	20. Lighting the home fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Uther finally dies, and the future is faced

It happens at 10pm, half way through No time for Memories. Morgana pulls Arthur off stage to do it, him walking like there’s lead strapped to every foot. Merlin can see the black surrounding her from a distance, more black than her stage clothes, sucking in the energy, and he doesn’t need to hear the words, to see Arthur’s face stiffen like he’s been slapped and shut down. It’s not like it’s not expected, but no death ever truly is. Arthur puts his hand on Morgana’s shoulders, as if to give her strength, and she throws her hair back, rippling mane of black about it, while the Bane keep on, Lance looking quizzically back at the Pendragons, and leading the Bane into the bridge, Leon’s snare rapping out the rhythm while he watches them too, the crowd throbbing like a bass string. It’s been as good a concert as it could be up to that point, even if Merlin can see half the seats unoccupied up in the stands, even if there’s patches of grass between the clumps of Bane gangs. It’s not terrible, given that there’s not really much of the actual Bane left, compared to who they were for the last album, the last afternoon of playing having left them with at least enough coherence to give a show worth listening to. Lance takes over the last verse, front and centre, while Arthur holds Morgana up, and when the final chord rings out, discordant and true, Morgana pushes him out, and he strides back on to the stage, shoulders back, holding his guitar like it’s giving him strength, like it’s a sword he can brandish, a weapon with which he can fight back what he has to say.

“Friends,” says Arthur, over the overtones still rolling out from Percy’s bass. “You have stood with us, and we have fought with you, for the love of music, we have fought together. You can’t win every battle, and we have bled with you and you have bled with us. Tonight,” and here Arthur swallows and pushes the mike away for a space. “Tonight, we have lost our leader. Uther Pendragon has put down his guitar for the last time.”

There is a surge of noise from the crowd, that wipes out whatever it was that Arthur was going to say, a growl, almost, rising up from around the stadium, and Merlin, sitting in the middle of it all, it almost hurts. Aithusa stirs, in her case. He can see an old guy, head shaved, and tatts down his arm, sobbing like a child. A young woman, in black ripped jeans, falling to her knees like she’s the one who’s Uther’s child herself. And everywhere he looks, it’s the same. Up on stage, Leon is holding his sticks like a stuffed toy. Lance is staring out into the sky. There’s no magic here, no yellow auras, nothing supernatural, just the grief, the shared loss of it, people holding each other up. He turns up Arthur’s mike, just a smidge. 

“If he were here,” Arthur is saying, “he would say thank you.”

Merlin doubts sincerely that this is the case. Uther’d not been one for thanks, particularly. He’d been one for actions, rather than words. He’d be playing something, something loud, and triumphant, and death defying. That which has music in it can never truly die, he’d be saying, he wouldn’t accept his death. Not for a month of Sundays. Uther would punch death right in the face, and go down under the feet of her horses before he’d say thank you to it. Not Uther. Not ever. 

“Morgana and I,” Arthur is continuing, “We’d wanted to wait to tell you, that we’re establishing a Bane Foundation, to care for those who need help, after what happened in Norwich. We’d wanted our father to recover, to lead it forward. That can’t happen now. But I know it would have been the deepest wish of his heart, to care for you, his people of the Bane, as best we know how. As part of our family.”  
Arthur strikes a chord, and lets it ring out, looking about the stadium, seemingly meeting every eye, capturing every heart. “This isn’t the time for details. This isn’t the time for regrets. This is the time to remember Uther Pendragon, if ever you loved him, and shake these walls to the ground. Stand with me, and the Bane in remembrance. Sing with me if you know the words, and I know you know the words. Sing now, for the love of Uther.”

He steps back, hands ready already on the strings, says something to the band, and they’re into Remember the Heroes, an older one, that the Bane don’t play as much anymore, but Merlin can feel the crowd rise up around him in response. He makes sure that Aithusa’s recording, and that she’s tethered, and then he listens to it all happen. It’s angry, and it’s violent, and it’s glorious, and the crowd is word, if not note, perfect, and the notes don’t matter, not to the crowd, not to Arthur, not to the Bane. They’re never going to top this, not in a million years. Which they don’t have. 

The rest of the concert, the crowd’s euphoric. Uther would have loved it. Every song, every single one, there’s no one sitting back, there’s no one left out, they’re united in triumph, and it doesn’t matter any more that the stadium’s half empty, that the Bane’s mostly gone. What remains is more than enough. Merlin remembers how it felt, that first concert back in the spring, the feeling of surrendering to the music, becoming part of the Bane for the first time, and how good it had felt. It feels good still, even if it’s ending. He doesn’t check his phone once, there’s too many adjustments on the fly, as they flip between songs, tossing the melodies around like tennis balls, taking liberties that Uther would have never allowed, but which the crowd cheers on relentlessly. 

There’s three sets of encores, all the crowd favourites, the older ballads, that Lance sings, Elyan stepping in on falsetto where Lot might have once taken a turn, and Merlin wonders what they must have been like, back in the day, when Arthur was the young kid watching his dad from back stage, alongside Gwaine and Morgana, watching their elders posture and sing. Are they remembering, he wonders, is this a farewell or one last wearing of dad’s old shoes? It doesn’t matter to the crowd., 

They play all the big angry stadium pleasing ones, Time for War, all three guitars up the front, and all the bass guitars up the back, in file, like they’re in some drill, and as far as Merlin knows, they’ve never practised that one, but it comes off, no one gets tangled in cords, or steps the right way, and he can half imagine Uther, red caped, no death mask on him this time, striding the stage in lead. It’s almost as long as they keep playing, Uther won’t leave, and they play well longer than any concert this season, well after midnight and the noise curfew, they play until the Leeds venue manager shuts the sound off. Defiantly, Gwaine steps to the middle of the stage, trumpet in hand, not even waiting for his hair to settle on his shoulders, unbuttoned shirt hanging off them, and delivers an almost bell like version of Taps. The crowd surges in response, a giant wave of noise, and then abates, flooding out the gates like water from a tap, and it’s over, never another concert like it before, and never another concert like it after. Uther would have been proud. 

After, then, in the hotel, no one wants to go to sleep. The dingy little thing is overrun, they tumble into the tiny foyer as noisy as any football crowd has ever been themselves, the great mob of them filling the yellow panelling with sound, trampling the orange brown carpet like it’s grass, making a mockery of the signs asking that guests respect the silence, all talking one over the other, instruments all mostly still in hand, and drumming out emphatic chords that mean something to the person playing them if to no one else. The hotel manager makes a token appearance, think of the other guests, but Percy suddenly appears, and she backs down. Morgana points out, very politely, that there’s only about two other guests, and neither of them are complaining, and Merlin puts up a little bit of a shield to block the noise anyway, just in case. Not that he’s telling the hotel that. There’s no stopping the Bane tonight.

Merlin does try, though. He finds Arthur when he comes in, all sweat, and bright eyed, with tears or laughter, Merlin’s not quite sure which. He’s still in his stage gear, make up smeared about his face, blackeyeliner making the resemblance to Uther more pronounced, his hair standing almost on end. It’s like he’s behind his own version of a mask, the son that Arthur always wanted Uther to see, and Merlin can’t quite see his Arthur, not really. He stumbles on the words, the stupid ones that you get on greeting cards, about how sorry he is, and how proud Uther would have been, and Arthur looks at him like he’s someone else, someone not Merlin, someone he’s meeting for the first time and doesn’t want to meet particularly. Then Arthur pushes his shoulder with his own, shoves it, really, and laughs, a little, and drops his hand back to his guitar, absently plucking out an arpeggio, and he’s back to Arthur again. 

“Just, shut it. Come and play. I want to hear you tonight.”

Merlin reels back. Arthur always pushes just a little harder than he means to, and if he wasn’t holding his guitar, Merlin’d push him back, and hold him steady against the wall, and wipe the mask off so he could see the damage. Arthur’s face is still set, it’s the one he’s worn, Merlin’d reckon, since Morgana told him. It’s the one worn for the press, for the crowd, the one the people need to see. Merlin doesn’t like being people. “You need to sleep. We need to talk.”

Arthur brings his hand back up, and tousles Merlin’s hair, mostly gently, but a little bit not. “No. I need to play. Come play with me.” His face softens, just a little, although his eyes are still suspiciously bright. He picks out a b7, and steps back, still watching.

Merlin’s never been very good at saying no to Arthur. When Arthur’s looking at him like that, all earnest, and shiny, and strumming absently at his guitar, Merlin doesn’t really have a chance. 

Arthur turns to the room. “That was it, wasn’t it? That was the one to top them all. We’ve given it our best, we really did, he couldn’t have asked for a better send off. Morgana’s going to message us in the morning with the service arrangements, and sorting out pay and the like, but what a concert to go out on, eh? Uther would have loved it. He would have loved it, tonight. He’d have been proud of us all, though he probably wouldn’t have said as much, would he now?”

There’s a cheer from Kay, and his hands, and a couple of the pyro lads are clapping, like they would have for Uther. 

“You’re a good egg Arthur,” someone’s shouting, and “Three cheers for Morgana, hey girls?” and there’s a lot of general shouting, in between the folks who are crying and the ones who are biting at their lips so that they don’t. 

“Drinks on the Pendragons, tonight. Shipping out by 11, so don’t go too hard, but don’t let him go easy. He wasn’t one for the easy. Thank you all, and let’s play some music now. Whatever you like. Send him off home,” says Arthur, and strikes another big chord at the room, like he’s lighting a match, and there’s a roar of voices in response.

Aithusa’s light as a whistle, and she sets up with no complaint, and then he finds that he’s surrounded, there’s Kay with his accordion, and Arthur, leaning up against Merlin’s back, tipping his head back on Merlin’s shoulder, the other half to his whole, and he can feel every chord, every note vibrating through it. There’s Lancelot lying on the vile yellow sofa, his feet in Gwen’s lap, and Gwen, with a guitar herself, leaning into Morgana. Percy’s sitting on a table, with Galahad at his side, and Bors at his feet, a blanket of bass notes seamless around them. Mordred’s lying under the table, violin under his chin, for reasons that no doubt make sense if you’re a lad of twenty one, and as Leon’s down there also, a man of forty, and taking care of percussive matters, chiefly no doubt, to irritate the team of bass assembled above them. 

Then there’s the stage crew, and Tal, assembled in groups of threes and fours, no one on their own, talking in soft voices, or loud voices, depending on the manner of their grief, and any other night, someone’d be after them to hush, but not this group, not tonight. It’s part of it. It’s the weft and warp of the band, that it’s not just the folk on stage that make it up. That this is the way in which they farewell their own, that they do it together. That this is the way they end things, not with a fade, but with a celebration, of what was.

Gwen sings a lament, in manner of a Sinead O’Connor, accompanied by her brother, who then takes it into a French fast paced number, which Merlin underlays with a tense slightly minor thrum, picked up quickly by Lance who seems to know all the words. Kay takes the French folk song, and twists it into a reel, and Mordred finds his fiddle and Gwaine a trumpet overlay, and amongst the crew dancing in the back room to it, is the hotel manager, who has given up entirely. Then there’s a sidestep into blues, where the guitars and bass guitars fight over who gets to be more unhappy, with verses thrown in by Morgana, who holds her own against Leon, singing from under the table. No one ever really finishes what they start, and no one ever really starts anything at any one point, and at a later date, Merlin’s going to have a hell of a time scrubbing this into anything anyone will ever understand. If there is a later date, at which to scrub. 

At dawn, the hotel manager feeds them breakfast, vast trays of toast, and bacon, and eggs, and baked beans in vats of orange sauce, and the music ebbs to a halt.

“Arthur,” says Merlin, timing it just as Arthur takes a large mouthful of toast and therefore cannot interrupt. “We need to talk.”

Arthur says something through a mouthful of crumbs, something which sounds like bed, and Merlin shakes his head, and nudges his cup of coffee over, black and burnt and bitter.

“For once in your life,” says Merlin, “just listen. I don’t want to have to tell you this at all. I definitely don’t want to tell you this twice.”

Arthur swallows the toast and pushes the coffee back at him. “I’m all ears. No, wait, that’s you.”

Merlin smiles weakly and drinks the coffee, which is actually really terrible. “I have to tell you something.”

“Let me guess,” says Arthur, and steeples his hands. “You have magic. Surprise! I already know that one.”

“Ta da,” says Merlin, and swirls his coffee cup, avoiding Arthur’s gaze. 

“The worst’s already happened, Merls. Dad’s dead, and with him a fair few others. Stop looking so mopey, that’s meant to be my job.”

“Morgana,” says Merlin, screwing his courage to the sticking place, “had a dream. She may not have told you this, but she dreams true. Sorry for outing you, Morgana, if she hadn’t. She’s got magic. So does Mordred.”

“So my sister had a dream. So what? I have plenty of dreams myself. Want to help me make a couple of them come true?” Arthur waggles his eyebrows, but his eyes are tight around the edges, and Merlin suddenly tears up, spilling the coffee, and pushing away from the table, fists tight.

“Fuck, what? What?” 

Morgana puts her hands on Arthur’s shoulders, kneading them in, black red fingernails against his shirt. “Let’s go for a walk,” she says, and removes Arthur from the hotel, leaving nothing but crumbs.  
*****************************************

The bus down to Cornwall is quiet, all the music bled out. It’s almost as if they’re flying through the air, only the white noise is present, and everything else hushed. It’s the twenty eighth of July, and Merlin can feel the Hunt, a while away, but close enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, when he’s not thinking about the shield. The bus is protected, as best he can make it. It’s under his shield, under his wing.

Now that he’s told Arthur, or rather, Morgana has, he’s properly angry. There’s an ache in all his muscles, pre-emptively, because there’s no way that he can’t fight this. He can feel it in his bones, it’s not going to be in him to resist it. It doesn’t matter that he knows it’s hopeless, he’s going to rise up just like his dragon, called to the fight in his marrow, it’s not in him to run from it. He wants to kill. He wants to make anything that threatens Arthur burn, burn and hurt with it, muscles crackling and bones snapping and ripped to shreds, and he knows, he knows there’s no point in feeling that feeling against the supernatural, who fly and fight without bones and sinew. This feeling isn’t coming from a place of the rational, any more than Aithusa’s flame does, and it doesn’t listen to argument. He’s properly angry with it, and properly angry with himself, for knowing that he won’t win. That he can’t save him. That Arthur, sitting next to him, all warm and fuzzy and brilliant, if in need of a shave, and a shower, and more than likely a shag, is going to die, and he can’t stop it. All those things that Arthur has left to do, whatever they were, aren’t going to get done, because no one but Arthur could do them, like he did last night, pulling the crowd together, the music, leading it into a better place, and he’s not going to live to see the end of the year, and more than Merlin’s going to hurt for it. He wants to make Rhiannon hurt for touching him, and for making Merlin part of the way in which she did it. He can’t, but that doesn’t make the want go away. 

Gaius is coming for the funeral tomorrow. He’s taken on the job of finding Agravaine, and the missing money, and he’s rounded up Lot, from whichever whiskey soaked hideout it is he’s been in. He’s bringing KIL. The more dragon power the better, Merlin told him, and Gaius told him in return that it wouldn’t make a lick of difference, and Merlin said he didn’t give a fuck, and Gaius told him to watch his language, and Merlin hung up. 

He can feel the anger in his magic, it’s all black at the edges. He wants to talk to his mother, but he’s not had time, not really, and besides, one word of sympathy and he’ll be toast, crumbs and all. He wants to talk to Rhiannon, but he’s frightened of what he might say. What she might do afterwards, to Arthur. That’s the thing, though. Arthur’s sat next to him, half off in his own little world, not having slept, not having imbibed to excess, other than on music, and if there’s even a smidge of a scintilla of a fingernail clipping of a chance that he can save Arthur, he’s going to do it. It’s just that he doesn’t know how. Most powerful magic user of his generation, and he can’t stop this. Who’s dumb enough to fight a goddess? To go across the Hunt? Him. That’s who. Once he figures out how. He’s full of magic, now, after a night of no sleep, and all that creation, full to the brims. Full to his own fingernails, one digging into the seat cushion and the other on Arthur’s leg, just so that he can remind himself that Arthur’s still there. Still alive. He rubs it reassuringly, and Arthur shifts closer in response, warm, solid and still there, blanketed by the ancient seat cushion, holding him in blue plaid. 

If it were a human after Arthur, a simple illusion would be enough. Arthur Pendragon would appear younger, or older, or Gwen’s brother, or Gwaine’s husband, or Kay’s maiden aunt. Hey presto manifesto, Arthur would be safe. 

If it were a magical creature, Merlin’s had enough practice in his time below, and he’s got his own magical creatures above ground to help. Aithusa’s already killed someone for him. Not exactly his intention, but she’d done it. KIL is much bigger, reputedly, and more impressive, and between the two of them, the red and the white, they’d deal with any basilisk, or questing beast, or what have you, with flames and bells on. They’d probably enjoy it a little too much, truth be told. If Arthur survives Rhiannon, they could rise against the Hunt, and probably give a good account of themselves. Possibly. He can see it now, against a black sky, Aithusa’s white, and KIL’s red wings, dividing the hunters, the falling bodies, and the lightning’s harsh relief. He wonders, absently stroking Arthur’s leg, how long they’d last against Gwyn. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t tire, not till the Hunt’s over. How do you ask a dragon if they’re willing to die for you? You can’t. You can only show them the fight, and see if they’re interested. He’ll ask, for Arthur. He’ll beg. 

Then, when Aithusa and KIL fail, and it’s more than likely that they will, there’s him. He has the power, he’s been told, to hold the elements at bay, and he’s done it. He’s played a storm like a harp. Frozen time without thought. 

The Hunt, though. He held them at a distance for less than an hour, and he was out for days. While Gwyn rides, the Hunt will too. It doesn’t matter how many of them fall, he can call the Hunt from wherever, from whenever, and they will come, dead or alive, deadly all the same. He doesn’t know, honestly, if he can land a blow on Gwyn, even if he’s armed with all the cold iron in Cornwall. He saw, once, his father go toe to toe with Gwyn, below, and back down, and his father a full blooded fae himself, and as savage and powerful as any of them. The Hunt, Gwyn, is a different category altogether, and worse when he rides out. He knows, though, that he’ll fall trying. It is not possible, not any more, to conceive of a world where he’s in it, and Arthur is not.

Before that, though, before the Hunt, there’s Rhiannon to deal with, and Rhiannon’s a different category. When he’d gone below, before, he’d known, he’d thought, what to expect and he’d been wrong entirely. It’d been better and it’d been much, much worse, but there’d been a destination at the end of the path, blue skies to aim for. He’d been told what the game was, and he’d known the rules, and how they’d be broken. He’d chosen to play it, eyes open, and he’d earnt his ending. He’d got what he’d gone in for, which was knowledge. Which was the key to accessing what he’d had inside him all along. He’d chosen what had happened to him. He’d looked over the cliff, and he’d jumped, eyes open. Arthur, on the other hand, had been pushed out of a plane, and Rhiannon had used him to do it. There’d been no choosing, and he hadn’t even known he was on a plane to start with. 

Which meant what? If Morgana’s sight was true, Rhiannon’s efforts to find her child were being thwarted by the Hunt who rode out as Gwen ap Annwn chose, and he could only choose so freely, rather than once every mortal year, because the worlds were out of balance. To put them in balance, Rhiannon had chosen, rather than sacrificing any of her own, to force a human. Not just any human, but the son of one who had played her too close to his chest, and caused her to lose her own son. But to hold the balance, that one would need to know that they were doing it. They would need to understand the role and its demands, not just last the distance through the initiation. Which meant what? In order for Rhiannon’s gambit to work, at some point, she would need to give Arthur the opportunity to consent, and if he consented, he would have to be given the knowledge, the scorecard, and the means of keeping score. Which all sounded lovely and tickety boo, except for the fact that at the moment, Arthur is very much a mortal non magical person, and giving consent, in this context, is surrendering to death. Very much literal death. Which means that the key here, of course, is Arthur. All he has to do to stop Rhiannon is to make sure that Arthur doesn’t consent. That Arthur wants to stay alive more than he wants to save the world. Easy, right? Merlin feels the shape of Arthur’s kneecap beneath his fingers, round and steady and unbroken. Nothing’s ever that easy.

So, convince Arthur to stay. How that’s to be done, he has no idea. Arthur’s not the type to back down from a challenge, he’s the type to throw himself on the grenade, to give up his seat on the life boat, to apologise to his father, when Uther’d been in the wrong to save Bane the shouting. If he’s been told, as Morgana’s told him, that the balance of the worlds is out and humanity’s existence is at risk, Merlin’s got buckley’s of convincing him that he shouldn’t do it. Merlin’s not to the type, either, to pull at heartstrings on his own account. Arthur’s more important than how Merlin feels about him, and he won’t pretend, not even to Arthur, that he’s not. He won’t say, stay for me. The thought of it makes him nauseous. But he can say, stay, for you. For all the things that you’ve left to do. He can remind him that he has a choice, that it’s still his to choose or refuse. 

If he won’t be convinced, die trying to save him. Cover him in cold iron. Cover anyone who’s standing with him in cold iron, and protection. Lure the Hunt, Gwyn, onto Merlin, and away from Arthur, and hold him there as long as Merlin can. Until Merlin’s energy runs out. Until Merlin dies. Gaius, and Morgana and Mordred will patch up anything, anyone that needs it, after. Until Rhiannon, until Gwyn comes, soak in magic, and music, and Arthur, power up until the time’s run out, and then explode. 

There. He has a plan, albeit a shitty one. He’s resolved. It almost feels good, to look down the barrel and face it head on. To know how long he has until the time runs out. 

Morgana’s asleep, finally, Gwen took her phone, and folded her into Lance’s arms, and she’s curled against him like a cat. Mordred’s stopped talking, principally because Gwen next to him is asleep too, and although he’s young and a little naïve, he’s fundamentally a good person, or so Merlin is choosing to believe. Most of the bus is asleep, snoring in the white noise, and the air conditioning, lulled into oblivion by the rushing country side, green and full of life about it, sheep grazing, but not Merlin. And not Arthur. 

“I feel numb,” says Arthur, addressing the back of the seat in front, as normal as normal can be. “No, that’s not right. Who feels numb? Numb isn’t a feeling. There are stages, aren’t there, that you’re meant to go through, when your father dies.”

“You don’t have to feel anything,” says Merlin into his armpit. “It’s not compulsory. It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay. It’s very obviously not okay. None of this is okay. No, I’m fine. I don’t need a tissue, fy nraig goch, it’s your father, it’s your death. I’m here to comfort you.”

“Oh shut it. It’s fine. You’re doing fine. Can you, just, hold me? Please” 

Merlin makes a long arm, and pulls Arthur half across the bus seat into as much of his lap as the seat belt will allow. 

“Gaius is coming, and he’ll handle Lot, and Agravaine if he shows his face. Gaius has the funeral service in hand, and he’s doing it. He’s doing it all, I think he’d fight anyone who’d try to take it off him. Monmouth & Sons, lawyers armed and ready if Lot or Agravaine try to force Bane to stay together. Leon’s on your side. Morgana’s got the press lined up, she’s already given them the story. I think she had it written days back. You don’t have to do anything. I don’t think there’s anything you can do. Not for your dad, not for the Bane, and definitely not about Rhiannon, or the Hunt.” 

Merlin shudders, just a bit, can feel the bile in the back of his throat, and Arthur pushes against him. “I hate waiting,” says Arthur. 

“I know,” says Merlin, pulling him closer. “You’re not very good at it.”

“I’m not good at it? You’re the one who’s squirming like he has worms. You’re terrible. You’re the worst.”

Arthur pokes him in the ribs, and then Merlin tussles him back, and Arthur pulls Merlin half onto his seat, as far as his seat belt will reach, and holds him there. 

“This,” says Arthur. “I don’t want to waste this. I don’t want to sleep, and waste any of whatever time we’ve got left. I get it. I do. If not me, then who else should do this? If it has to be done, to stop that from happening again, then I’ll do it. To make it right. To make it fair. I just wish, I just wish I’d had more time.”

“Yeah,” says Merlin, running his hand across Arthur’s ribs to hold him just a bit closer. Like it’d make a difference.

“If I said, would you run, would you run with me? Just go? Try to disappear?”

“For all the good that’d do us? Yeah. Of course. Want to go now?”

Arthur sighs, the breeze of it hot in Merlin’s hair. “No. That’s not what I want, anyway. Can you imagine, losing half the time to sitting on busses and trains and airplanes, and dealing with customs  
officials? We’d just be somewhere, and she’d have us. Here you are, Miss Rhiannon, signed, sealed and delivered. No. You know what I’d want, if we had more time?”

He pauses, and Merlin presses himself further into Arthur’s shoulder joint, cinnamon and sweat.

“Where we’re going, Tintagel, is my mother’s home. There’s a little town there. That hotel we stayed at, beginning of the tour, you probably don’t even remember it, it’s one dad bought for her. Before I was born. He told me that she’d said she wanted a home, in case things went wrong. His one concession to common sense, he said once. Then, of course, she died, and she’d barely lived in it. We’d run away there, just the two of us.”

“Just the two of us, really?” says Merlin, but his voice is knowing.

“Yes, okay, not just the two of us, obviously, Merlin. The others can come too. We’d all have our own little houses, whitewashed, and primroses, and seagrass. Gwen can decorate her path with big white cockle shells, and you can have a little cat to keep Aithusa comfortable, and I’ll finally have a hound, one whose racing days is over and just wants to sleep, and occasionally go for walks, but mostly to sleep.”

“I bet you’ve got a name for them both picked out already.”

“Only for my dog. He’s going to be called Cafall, a white fellow, with one black ear up, and a white one down. But really any colour would do, I’m not that fussy. You have to pick your cat’s name. And it doesn’t even have to be black, because you don’t care for stereotyping. Except that black would suit you.”

“Eilonwy, she would be called,” says Merlin, eyes slipping close despite himself, “and she would be brindled. And then what?”

“We’ll have a recording studio, of course, plenty of machines for you to tinker with, and a good amount of sound proofing and nice surfaces for me. Our friends come round every day, or thereabouts, and we make music. Like tonight, or last night, I suppose. Whatever we feel like playing. Morgana and you can sort out the details. She likes details. She’s magic at them.”

“Yeah, sounds nice,” says Merlin, slipping further down Arthur’s side. “Then what.”

“We live,” says Arthur, “we just live. There’s a huge bed, with a decent mattress that doesn’t have broken springs like last night’s monstrosity, and hard enough for your spine not to make all those little noises, and so that I don’t snore, yes, I know I do. An apple tree out the back, golden delicious, and an apple tree out the front, a Bramley so I can make you apple pies with cinnamon, I know why you’re falling asleep into me, you funny thing. Percy can have a cow, so we can have fresh milk, and Gwaine can keep the chickens for us all, and we’ll babysit the kids, when people have them. I’ll cook, and we’ll keep a pig to eat the things I burn, and you can wash up. We just live.”

“Let’s do that,” says Merlin as he falls asleep. “Sounds good.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, watching the countryside fly past them. “It does.”

The next day, there’s a funeral. It’s the twenty eighth of July, and time’s run out for Uther, and is running close for Arthur, and every minute spent on the funeral is a minute wasted, according to Merlin, not that he can say that to anyone. There’s too many feelings washing around, and there’s too many press people and photographers to boot. The band poses for photographs, together, looking somehow smaller without their instruments, hands twitching, unsure. Excepting of course, Arthur and Morgana, drilled in the art of the pose, wearing appropriately sombre faces, Arthur in a well fitting black suit, produced from somewhere in the Tintagel wardrobes stands with his hands clasped at his belt, a young Uther all over again, and Morgana in another gorgeous black silk number, with carefully placed jet beads, and ruffles to draw the eyes to places they already wanted to go, and the cameras take their cue. 

There’s a lot of empty words at the funeral home, and Arthur makes it through a sanitised version of Uther’s life, with nothing in his eulogy that tells the press anything they didn’t already know. The Bane and their crew perform their grief as well as they can, although they’ve already exhausted themselves with it, at the real wake, up in Leeds. Morgana sheds a few, carefully calculated tears, as does Arthur. Then, there’s a crematorium at Penmount, and they stand and watch the coffin disappear behind red velvet curtains. Merlin stays in the background, unobtrusive, with Gwen, who is genuinely teary, because she’s good that way, and he tries to not think about how there’s not likely to be a body, for Arthur, in less than a week’s time. He won’t organise that funeral. He can’t. The press is given ample photo opportunities, black crepe streamered guitars, the band sombre about it, and Arthur gives interview after interview, until the last of the cameras switches off, and the cars drive away. 

At the Tintagel house, in their hall, currently fitted out with round tables from the last conference that had booked them, white tablecloths, and bowls of mints, and jugs of water, Morgana addresses the Bane and the crew one last time, Arthur standing by her side, silent in his black suit still, although he’s at least loosened his tie, now the press are gone. She starts with the mundane, last payouts, where to find lost property, update your contact details and the bank details in the app if they’ve changed, all the usuals. We’ll be in touch in the future, if ever the Bane reform. 

Then, she flicks her hands towards the wide windows, and the shades flit down faster than thought. They hadn’t talked about this, Merlin thinks. But Morgana’s always had a taste for the showy, exhibit one, the black sleeves, jet beaded, that catch the werelights that she’s set about the hall. Why not look good, thinks Merlin, if you can? And Morgana certainly can. Let her have the sweet of it, before she delivers the bitter. He watches the hall, and half are slack jawed to see her do it. The other half are watching, expectant. That latter half, he’s pleased to note, include all the Bane members, and the most of the stage crew, the ones who’ve been with the Bane longer than he has. 

“I wanted to say thank you,” starts Morgana, now that she’s dispensed with the mundane. “What we’ve been through together, before this year, was hard. This year was beyond imagining. I’m sorry to tell you that it’s not yet over. There will be worse, and there will be worse soon. We did not know what was coming last time, or you can best believe, my loves, that we would have avoided it. We do know what is coming this time, and when, and it will be soon – a matter of days. Leave, now, and go with our thanks, if you don’t want to face death again. I can’t promise, no one can, that you’ll be safe if you go, but you’ll certainly be safer than if you stay.”

There’s no movement in the hall, all waiting for more. 

“I’m serious,” says Morgana. “This is your chance to go.” She pauses, and this time, there is movement, some. Some of the crew, none of the Bane, and all but one of the pyros. There’s hugs. There’s phone numbers being swapped. Touching farewells being made. It’s all so very normal, so very human, and Merlin wants to shake them all into movement, into that. There’s so very little that any of them can do but die at Arthur’s side, and there’s no point in that. None. The last, however, is farewelled, waved out of the hall, and into the care of the Tintagel housekeeper, and if Merlin focusses, he can hear her doling out bags, care parcels, take the water, I’ll call you a taxi. All the normal things fade as the door shuts properly, and Merlin updates the shield about the hall. Soundproofs it. Double checks, the Hunt is still a ways off.

“Really,” says Morgana, “I mean it. Do you remember, any of you lovely darlings, how long it was to truck out the bodies at Norwich? Look to your left, look to your right,” and she waits for them to do that, as trite as any first year lecturer warning of the likelihood of failure. “It’s likely that all of you will die. That all of us will die.”

“My love,” says Kay, easing himself up from crossed legs. “I can think of no greater honour than to die in the company of such as these. I mind well, Herne the Hunter, and he’s no small horror. I’ll not let you face him without me.”

Morgana nods, but she’s biting her lip. “Thank you, good sir Kay. Let me tell you then, all my foolish bravehearts, what we have, and what we can do, and then I will hear from you, what you can add.”  
It’s a tense hour. Mordred hands out charms, trinkets that he and Morgana have found of cold iron, crudely tied onto leather, or fashioned into belt buckles, and enchanted with every protective spell Merlin can remember. It’s not much, but it may be enough, against the Hunt, to break the Hunt into individuals, who Merlin can then engage one on one. Morgana hands out will kits. He’s made his, signed, sealed, and delivered, his work is Arthur’s, in the unlikely event that Arthur survives him, to his mother back home in Ealdor, if Arthur doesn’t. It’s the quickest he’s ever filled out a form in his life. 

Down the front, Arthur is demonstrating to the rest, basic fighting techniques, and Kay’s adjusting Arthur’s feet in return, and none of them look exactly new to the gentle art of punching people in the nose. It almost feels, thinks Merlin, like they should be wearing armour, all heavy and hard, and red caped about it. Calling for mead, and wearing tunics and trousers, rather than suits and ties, the way that they’re carrying on, men and women both, all posture and champing at the bit to be off. Ready for the fight. It’s a pity that none of it will exactly work on the non corporeal bits of the Hunt, and there are an awful lot of them to contend with. Arthur takes them out, presumably to go hunt down all the ancestral steel edged things that they have to brandish at the Saxons, or the Fae, or whoever the enemy of the Pendragons happens to be on any given day, and Merlin slumps down into one of the uncomfortable conference chairs. 

Mordred, visibly preening with his importance, holds his hand over heads, to see if there are any with latent magic. There’s five, all members of the stage crew who appear delighted, and one, the remaining pyro, Pter, who looks unsurprised, and exactly none of the Bane. There’s a little huddle then, as Mordred teaches them what he’s been taught, and that’s then, at least tripled the number of magic users, so that’s got to be something, thinks Merlin. The shield will hold that little bit longer. The charms will work that little bit better. There’ll be extra minutes of life between them and death, and that’s not nothing. It’s not much, but it’s not nothing. Merlin’ll take it. He’ll take them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the pointy end. Thanks for sticking around, o merry band of peoples. 
> 
> This chapter, full of exposition and foreboding as it was, was brought to you by  
> The Great Gig in the Sky (Pink Floyd)  
> Praying for Time (George Michael)  
> 4 (the Cruel Sea)  
> Home (Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes)  
> Song for Shelter (Fatboy Slim)  
> 1 2 3 4 (Feist)  
> How Soon Is Now (The Smiths)  
> To You I Bestow (Mundy)  
> Moments Like This (Alison Krauss & Union Station)  
> Dis moi pourquoi (Amina)  
> Besoin de la Lune (Manu Chao)


	21. Last of the summer wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something for Valentine's Day, while the time runs out against Rhiannon and the Hunt. I totally forgot Valentine's Day, but I don't think Merlin's the sort to mind.

He’s hurtling down the face of the wave, flying with it. Water up his nose, and freezing trickles down his back, but it’s all good. It’s all so damn good and he doesn’t want it to end. Then, of course, the wave runs out of oomph, and he runs out of juice, and he drops back into the wave. The sand is gritty under his toes, once he lets himself find the bottom, gritty in between the rounded pebbles, and he can feel every last grain, unless he tells himself not to. Gwaine’s out there on a board, carving it up, hair flowing like a shampoo ad, Uther left behind a bunch of them, Elyan’s on another, Mordred too, Pter from the pyros, Tristan and Isolde from the stage crew, chasing the same high. Arthur’s not surfing, and a little snooty with it, his preferred form of water is frozen, and he can ski down it, he’s on the beach, shirt off, flat on a towel, soaking up the rays. Morgana’s riding horses with Gwen up on the clifftops. Lance is meditating down the end of the beach, while Percy and the bass are doing some sort of complicated yoga with the rest of the stage crew. Kay and Leon are back at the house, comparing the various whiskeys Uther left behind, supervised by Tal, who took an oath years back, teetotal till the day he dies, and to hell with the Wild Hunt. 

Out to sea the wild terns dive the waves, and emerge, fish in beak. Victor, victorious, to you go the spoils.

He plants his feet down firmly and springs back up, jumping back up into it, out the top of the breaking wave. Feels the water run him down, run him cold, and swims back up and out, out to a better break, waits until the perfect moment, and then cuts the water with his arms, at the right speed, the perfect speed and lets the water take him, lets himself be part of it.

It’s a perfect, beautiful morning. He wants to freeze it, freeze time, stop it from ticking, but the nature of waves is that they break. The nature of time is that it passes. The balance must be kept.

In bed, later. The sheets are white and glow, bright in the sun. Arthur’s back is unscarred, perfect, slightly sticky with the aloe that Merlin’s rubbed in. He can’t shield Arthur from the effects of UV-B, not even UV-A, without concentrating much much harder than he has had a care to, diving in the surf. His own damn fault for not putting the cream on, and basking like some great sea lion. 

“Don’t you dare lecture me about skin cancer,” says Arthur into the bedsheets. “I won’t have it. It’s not that bad.”

Merlin shrugs, not that Arthur can see it. It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing matters anymore. He runs his finger from the nape of his neck, all the way down through the aloe, and slowly down his spine. 

“Sunburn looks good on you.”

Arthur rolls over, stretching like the sea lion he’s not. “I am, indeed, a vision.”

Merlin lets his hand run up Arthur’s ribs, and through the fuzz on his chest, gritty with sand, and makes no answer. 

“Stop thinking so much,” Arthur says into Merlin’s wandering hand, now cupping his cheek. 

“I’m not thinking at all,” says Merlin.

Later still, in the shower. “I don’t know this one,” Arthur says, tracing the circled tree on Merlin’s left shoulder blade. “I wanted, I want to make a list. A catalogue. Interesting place on Merlin’s body, and things that happen when I touch them.”

Merlin turns his face into the shower, and lets the water wash him away. Arthur traces over his back, finger tips so light they could be the droplets, trickling down. Numbering his scars. Outlining the ink. There’s nothing he can say to that.

After dinner, as fine as meal as any castle chatelain could muster, roast chickens, and cunningly spiced carrots, and candied walnuts, and crisply tart lemon ices, there’s a time for sitting on the lawn, resting waistbands, and sipping the remains of wineglasses. People sprawl across the lawn, in a haphazard way, like a Bruegel painting, much more interesting in the detail, no doubt, of their humanity, than the whole would suggest. Merlin’s not looking at anyone but Arthur, and although Arthur puts his head up routinely, just to check that everyone is still there, still accounted for, no one lost yet, like some sentinel meerkat, he’s not really looking at anyone bar Merlin.

“You haven’t asked me anything,” says Merlin, watching Arthur’s eyes, like they’re the ones that turn gold spontaneously. “You haven’t said much, at all.”

Arthur half smiles, half frowns. “I’m not sure what there’s left to say. There’s too much left to say.”

Merlin ducks his head, pulls up a grass stem. “You could say, why me. You could say, you’re some kind of useless sorcerer, Merlin, if you can’t get me out of this. You could say, I don’t even believe in the old gods, why should I have to die for them. You could say, I don’t want to die.”

Arthur’s hand closes on the grass stem, and removes it. “I don’t want to die. No one here wants to die, not really. Saying it doesn’t change it. So why say it?”

Merlin tugs the grass stem back. “So I can say, you don’t have to. So I can say, it’s all my fault, and Rhiannon wouldn’t have looked twice if I hadn’t been here. If I hadn’t asked for her blessing. I don’t want you to die.”

Arthur pushes his shoulder back. “Fine, then. I just won’t die. Simple as that.”

Merlin pulls him down, on top of him, the heat from his body burning. “It could be. Rhiannon needs your consent, Arthur. She’ll hold the Hunt off, until she has it.”

Arthur nuzzles into his neck, soft at first, the scratch of his stubble enough and not enough at the same time, and then he bites, hard enough that Merlin can feel his teeth individually, hard enough that Merlin can stop thinking. “I know you’re not a coward,” says Arthur into Merlin’s neck, the growl of it hard and stirring. “and I know you’re not a fool. Don’t think me either. She’s going to cheat. She’s going to twist it, so that there’s no choice but to consent, or everyone here on this lawn dies. Everyone dies. You die. And the Hunt still rides, and she has to start over. That’s the shape of it, isn’t it?” Arthur licks up Merlin’s neck, soothing the spot where he’s bitten, and Merlin lifts his chin higher to allow it. “If I consent, then she can make the balance right. The Hunt goes back to routine programming, that’s what Morgana said. They were fucking terrifying, Merls. Can’t keep them around. Not good for record sales.” 

Merlin laughs despite himself, tipping his head right back onto the grass. “People can’t come to concerts if they’re dead, is that it? Colour me sold.” 

Arthur nips at his chin. “Just stop. It’s done. Tomorrow night, we’re going down to the amphitheatre, and we’ll play, and it’ll just be done. If all we’ve got is now,” and he hauls up the better to look down at Merlin as seriously, as solemnly, as shining in gold as only Arthur can manage, “then let’s not waste it. Just, just hold me. I don’t want you to change now. You have to stay the same, Merls. Stop thinking. Can you do that? Can you?”

Merlin’s never been very good at saying no to Arthur. Now more than ever. He reaches up, and around, and pulls Arthur down on to him, fitting his chin over Arthur’s shoulder, as close as he can, and he feels the minute that Arthur relaxes down onto him, interleaving his legs with Merlin’s, letting his chin sink over Merlin’s shoulder too. He can feel the second their breath synchronises, Arthur in, Merlin out, Arthur out, Merlin in. Arthur rubs his cheek against Merlin’s, stubble against Merlin’s own, and Merlin imagines that he could become Velcro, trap Arthur against him forever, safe like this, in the cradle of his arms. Except that’s a lie. There’s no safe, safer, safest. There’s no safety.

“You’re thinking still, aren’t you?” Arthur’s voice grumbles in his ear. 

Merlin’s trying. He’s trying very hard, but somewhere in the back of his head, the clock is ticking.

Later, still. Gwen ceremonially presents Arthur with CALI. She’s still red, in parts, but she’s limned with gold, and her frets replaced, and her neck unbroken, and Gwen’s painstakingly tuned her, turned her into something that shines like the sun, like Aithusa’s flames when she flies. To hear Arthur pick out a tune is to witness a rainbow being born, says Gwaine, but then he’s already three sheets to the wind, and playing whatever comes into his head, as he walks about Tintagel House. The joke’s on Gwaine, though, for Merlin encourages a little cloud, not really ready at all, to drop its load on Gwaine, and Gwaine alone, and his trumpeting morphs into something more akin to a muppet squawk, and curses up a blue storm.

There’s a coalescing then, an accretion of people, and music, about Arthur, and the brilliant sound of his new guitar, watched over by Gwen, glowing with happiness. Merlin doesn’t even try to hold out. Aithusa emerges immediately, and takes position in the fireplace, curled about herself and shrunk down to fit, the better to observe. It’s a wild night, then. No one plays a Bane tune, not even a fraction of one. There’s no recognisable tune, at any point, nothing that fits into a rock, or pop, or EDM, or folk song. Nothing marketable. Nothing for any audience but the one that the musicians give themselves. It’s discordant, at times, when ideas collide and smash into each other, but immensely satisfying when they compliment instead. It’s brilliant and chaotic, creative destruction at its best, and Arthur at the heart of it. 

Later, still, in bed again. Arthur’s above him, inside him, and Merlin finally stops thinking. No, incorrect, can’t think. Can’t anything, not consciously. There’s butterflies flickering in and out of existence, electric blue, above the bed, behind Arthur’s body, when he opens his eyes. Little electric snakes shimmering in and out against the wallpaper. He’s everywhere, and nowhere, and Merlin can’t focus, and stops thinking and just is, endlessly hurtling down the wave, until the wave dissipates into nothingness, and the room is full only of their breathing, Arthur in, Merlin out, Merlin in, Arthur out. Arthur in, Merlin out. Merlin in, Arthur out. Time is up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by an author who is trying not to write the next chapter.
> 
> Take Five, Dave Brubeck Quartet  
> Within Your Reach (The Replacements)  
> When the World Ends (Dave Matthews Band)  
> Stripped (Depeche Mode)  
> If You Never Say Goodbye (PM Dawn)  
> The One Moment (OK Go)


	22. Stop all the clocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Hunt rises, and a king is crowned, and dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe in happy ever afters. Eventually. In, like, three chapters time. Probably.

Tintagel Castle custodians helped them move the crates of weapons, the crates of torches and flammables down the hill, and along the drive, shutting up early for the day, a special favour. The name Pendragon carries weight in Cornwall, even the parts of Cornwall that don’t listen to rock music. Crates of weaponry are the least of it, not even the oddest thing they’ve bumped in to Tintagel, apparently. George, the head custodian, has a long and involved story about brass, and Shakespeare re-enactment, and Uther, and Arthur’s mother, and at any other time, any other point in his life, Merlin would be delighted to hear about it, but not today. 

No, he wouldn’t. That’s a lie. There is no point that Merlin can possibly imagine that would render his brain sufficiently comatose to listen to George talk about anything. For the moment, though, he’s trapped, at the other end of the crate, back aching slightly, listening to George opine about the exact shade of blonde Ygraine had been, and how much Arthur resembles her, but not exactly, his hair’s a shade darker, a touch more rustic, whereas Ygraine, Merlin is given to understand, was quite ethereal, more in the nature of something refined, a polished silver, rather than a tarnished bronze. 

He can see Arthur, at the end of the path, handing out weaponry, and Leon drilling the younger crew of the Bane in how exactly to stab someone with the stabby end. No, not the Bane. Not anymore. These swords aren’t exactly just swords either, not any more. Morgana’s enchanted what she could, curses against the undead, an undoing of what should not be still knotted together, and Mordred’s blessed what he can, calling on his childhood memories, although Merlin’s doubtful that a charm to protect against the monsters under the bed will do much here against the Hunt. It’s better than nothing.

The edge of the cliff is awfully close, and rocks tumble down off the path every now and then. He can hear the sea, its breathing beat, and the rocks smashing against each other as the waves push in, a tinkle rather than a roar, at the moment. The sun’s setting, and it’s flooding the sky with orange, back up the hill, blood on the grass, on the stones. Up above the ruins, Kilgarrah is daring Aithusa on, rising with the lifts, stretching out against it, swoops and banks, for the fun of it, their bodies silhouetted against the clouds, their sound decks safe back at home at Tintagel House. Getting ready. They’ve had all the charge they can stand, and this isn’t using energy, Kilgarrah’s told Merlin gruffly, when he ventured a mild reprimand. This isn’t using energy, it’s warming their blood. It’s something all dragons like to do, ride the winds. Merlin doesn’t argue with dragons, and definitely not ones who are about to fight. Crunchy and good with ketchup, he thinks, is not how he wants to go out.

Mordred is refreshing the new magic recruits from the crew, and Merlin can hear the words of the shield incantation, over and over, until they form one continuous whole, of no good to anyone. In his head, he can hear Tristan talking to Mordred, asking him again about the healing spell, the one that goes with the St John’s Wort, and he’s telling him not to fret, that it’s as simple as pie. Mordred’s never cooked a pie in his life, the liar. He’s surrounded by time, he’s saying. Merlin’d freeze it, if they need to, he’s saying. He has more faith in Merlin than he does himself. He can feel his magic now, from the top of his hair down to the tips of his toes full of it, and it’s all ready to go. He can feel the auras spreading from the magic users, out, and it’s not nothing. It’s not. 

He’s laid down wards, all about their site. He can feel them, like extensions of his own body. When the sun disappears, he’s going to lift the shield up and over, covering the site down to the cliff, protect them all under a giant bowl. If something comes up the cliff, they’ll be cooked, but that’s what the dragons and the pointy stabby things are for. He’s asked the Maiden, for all the future, that Arthur could do here. The future that Merlin’d give his life for. Will do, if he has a chance and it’s going to tip the balance, he’ll do it. The Mother, for all the years Arthur’s lived without one, to have a heart, lady, please. For Ygraine’s sake, let her son live. He’s asked the Crone, for the wisdom to be able to turn the tide, if there’s a chance. And finally, Rhiannon, his own mistress. If there’s anything, he’s said, if there’s any time, Rhiannon, when you loved me. When I did you good. Do me right. Let me save him. Let him be safe. He’s offered up wine, and honey, and his own blood, although that was more happenstance than intention, he should know better than to try to enter a stone circle absent minded. Absent. He’s poured it out anyway, before dawn this morning, the frost rising on the grass about the stones, leaving Arthur behind him in the warm bed. He’s offered all he could. There’s been no response at all, he’s been shouting into the void. The gods, the goddesses, will do what they will. As they always have. As they always will. 

He tried, one last time, in the bus on the way down. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself, I’ll take your place. I’ve gone through what you’ve gone through, alongside you. She can’t deny me. Arthur had looked out the windshield, as they drove down through the town, people with shopping bags, time for home and dinner, the bustle of it, and swallowed. I have to save my people, Arthur had said, and looked back at him. Looked at him in the quiet bus, and kept still, and Merlin had wanted to freeze time, just once, to keep that image of Arthur for his and always, stupid and protective and full of love. Stupid, protective, thickheaded clotpolish love. Known he couldn’t. Known that Arthur wouldn’t refuse Rhiannon when she asked, and that it wouldn’t be in him to stop him. Stop him, no. Intercede with Rhiannon? Drive off the Hunt? Merlin’s going to give that a go, instead.

The site is buzzing with activity, all about him, twilight well advanced, when he sees it, the glimmer of it.

It’s inside the wards, and it’s not human. It’s shining and bright, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think it, her, beautiful. She’s not just beautiful, she’s terrifying. She seems twice the size of Morgana, and beside her, Morgana’s nothing at all. She’s early, too early, but goddesses make their own time, and everyone else must adapt. Around him, he’s aware, people are falling to their knees, dropping their swords. George has finally shut up, and that was a miracle he didn’t even think to ask for. She’s as beautiful as she was when he was below, her hair as soft and dark as a raven’s wing, her mouth the red of a cherry, and her eyes, when they turn on him, are as kind and loving in appearance as ever, deep and dark as the night. 

“Merlin,” she says, and he can hear George moan, in awe. “My faithful son. You have done well. I am pleased.”

He goes to move, to speak, and he’s held still, a mother’s tender grip holds him fast, stops him from moving. Around the site, he can see that everyone is watching, small movements only. Gwaine, he thinks, is crying. Lancelot has his arms about Gwen, holding her back. Elyan appears to be holding up his phone, trying to record it. Stupid, but oh so very human, and Merlin can feel the tears pricking the back of his eyes.

“Arthur,” she says, turning away, and floating down the path, and as her attention drifts, releasing Merlin from her hold. “You have come so far. So, so far, and yet, no distance at all.”

Arthur’s standing stock still, either holding himself rigid or being held, it’s not possible to tell. He looks, as best Merlin can tell, slightly dazed. Go slowly, Merlin’d said, with Rhiannon. Respectfully. You don’t owe her anything, but she has made no compact with you either. If you don’t intend to see this through, be polite. The Hunt’s nothing, compared to her. It is entirely possible, thinks Merlin, that Arthur had thought he was kidding. 

“And every time, you come to this point here. You have proven yourself, finally, of spirit, of heart, and of mind, and we come now to the last hurdle.”

Rhiannon turns, and smiles at Merlin, and with that smile, he can now, finally, see it all. See it as it has unfolded all the times, every time, Arthur has been led to this. Every time since the first, at Camlann, when Arthur charged at Morgana’s army, having skipped over the tests, Merlin having removed most of them from his path. Times when Arthur was a minor lord, in the hills, in the darker times, and stayed in his keep, let his people die. Times when Arthur captained a vessel, and Merlin navigated them away from all the perils, all the tests, and their lives were ordinary, minor, no one overly happy, overly sad, just normal, normal to the ends of their eyeteeth and beyond. Times when Arthur never met Merlin, and Merlin did not know Arthur existed, and died at the first. When Merlin and Morgan fought together, and defeated Arthur together, and Rhiannon never tested anyone, ever. This time, she’s shuffled the cards just right, and he’s been played, even in his trials below, meeting his father, undergoing his own initiation, she’s not let on until now. The hand is dealt, and he knows the shape of this story too well. He sees the instant it clicks in for Arthur, a shiver, a settling into himself, his feet planting more sure, more ready for the fight than ever before. 

“My lady,” says Arthur finally. “I do not have your gifts of understanding. I ask that you speak, if it please you, plain, and to the point.”

“What would you give,” sighs Rhiannon, stirring resonances about the site, within the shield. Merlin can see now, the sun on its last rays, the Hunt rising about it, tendrils of black, and green, and grey itching at his shield, jellyfish tendrils stinging as they slide past. “What would you give to save those that you love? You have proven that you have the courage to look at the world, as it is. That you have the understanding of your fellows, their strengths and their weaknesses, to lead them to safety. That you have love, for this world, and your place in it. What would you give of yourself to save it?”

“For the love of this world? For love?” says Arthur, certain and sure, the setting sun crowning his head with red, looking about the ruins, catching Morgana’s eye, and smiling, from Tal, to Kay, taking them all in, one last time, and letting his eyes finally rest back down on Merlin, one last look, and losing the smile, all matter and no mirth, not anymore, and back then to meet Rhiannon’s brightness, as brave as any sword. “I’d give it all. What else am I for?”

There’s then a flash, too bright for even Merlin to see through, and he has to look away, and when he looks back, Rhiannon’s gone, and Arthur has a sword, and a crown, a simple one, nothing fancy TM, nothing Merlin recognises, no distinguishing features. The sword, though. It’s a big honking sword, one of the sharp pointy variety, Merlin’s present is telling him, and Merlin’s past is telling him he knows this sword, he threw it to Freya, it’s at the bottom of a lake far from here, and Rhiannon is a sneaky bitch, when she wants to be, which is always. The dragons are rising, on the other side of the shield, Aithusa diving down over the cliff out of sight, and Kilgarrah ascending up, where Merlin can’t make him out, and Arthur’s shouting something that Merlin can’t hear over the noise in his ears, the thunder of it. The last of the sunset fades, and the Hunt is upon them.

There’s the first of the stars shining above, but it’s quickly gone, behind the bodies of giant black horses, trampling the skies, no wings, obeying no rules of physics that Merlin’s ever learnt in any of his incarnations, and with teeth that betray them as no real horses at all. Some of them have riders, cloaked in black, not riding humans this time, but wraiths tall and skeletal, taller than even Percy, wraiths with flesh dripping off their bones, and black socketed eyes to their skulls, with fingers that point through the shield, targeting Mordred, targeting Morgana, and smiling their slackjawed teeth at Merlin. Some of them are no horses at all, but wyverns, or wraiths thereof, black wings ripped and torn, the stars flicking behind them in and out of sight, breathing trails of smoke before them, shimmering light betraying the heat of it in the night sky. 

He plants his feet, and stretches out his fingers, calling up his dragons, who rise up behind them all, looking smaller than before. Aithusa bugles a challenge, and swoops at the black. Kilgarrah, more measured, makes fell great sweeps of his wings, gathering height, gathering speed, and Merlin doesn’t need to watch the descent, watch that fight. His dragons are ready. 

About the shield, on the ground, are white haired, red eyed dogs, hounds baying for blood, snapping their teeth for it, hard, emphatic barks that have the skin crawling, and the hair raising at the back of the neck, the barks that signify that you are prey, and they, they are the predator who is coming for you. 

With the dogs are more dead. Dead that he recognises, only by the t-shirts, black and bearing the logo of the Bane. They’re not yet rotted, not yet inhuman, and that makes them almost worse. They’re circling the shield, the parts that they can reach. Some are, he can see the hands, climbing the cliff, to get at him. No, to get at Arthur. He can feel them scratching at the shield, searching for weakness. They’ll find none, not yet. He can feel the Hunt’s tendrils of power, sapping at the shield, and the power he and the others are pouring into it. He’s not worried. Not yet. Not about that. 

On the pathway, just the other side of the shield shimmer, he can see the worst of all. There’s Uther. He knows Uther’s gone, he saw the coffin depart, the crematorium’s urn is sitting back at Tintagel House, and there’s Uther all the same, purple shadowed, and grim, and with a hand outstretched, reaching for Arthur. There’s a voice, in the back of his head, not meant for him, and looking about, he can see that everyone hears it too. Morgana has her ears covered, shaking her head, no longer the fierce priestess that she was before the sunset.

“Arthur. Give up your foolishness,” Uther is saying. “I taught you better than to consort with sorcery, and yet here I find you, wearing the supernatural like a bathrobe, hiding behind the skirts of your sister. And your manservant. This is no kingship. If you want to be a king, you know what must happen.”

His father must die, Mordred thinks loudly at Merlin. Arthur must fight his father. Morgana gasps. Above, in the sky, circling with the wraiths, Gwynn laughs hollowly, his black bow and quiver hanging about his back, holding his black stallion with unearthly grace, and his voice is as deep as the crash of the waves on the grounds out to sea, and as echoing as the thunder. “What will you have, Arthur? You have been issued a challenge, sir. Take it up, or cast your crown away.”

“I shall go,” says Lancelot. “Give me the sword, Arthur. I can fight in your stead. It is permitted, I know this.” Gwen stands rigid at his side. Merlin can see her hands clenching, so as to not to grab Lance back, if he chooses to go. He knows the feeling.

“I don’t give a damn what’s permitted. That’s my fight, my father,” says Arthur, half a shout, “I want you here, between my people and the Hunt. Leon, Gwaine, Percy, Elyan, Gwen, all my knights. I need you here, holding the ground. For the love of Camelot, or the Bane, or whatever about this world you think is worth fighting for, I need you to fight, one last time, and this the last. You, the rest of you, who I don’t know as well as I ought. The rest of you mad things, who are down here with swords, and maces, and axes in hand. This is our stand. Light the fires. Stay here, as long as the shield holds,” and here he flicks his eyes out to Pter, and Mordred, and Morgana, “and hold as long as you can after it. It is my privilege to fight for you. To fight with you.”

George, of all people, holds up a blunt looking axe, and shouts, “For the love of Camelot!” There’s a collective shout, as the crew lift their weaponry, and echo him, and Merlin really wishes they wouldn’t. It’s not going to help against the undead, no, nor the Hunt neither. He can see the dogs, circling, and there, at the high side of the hill, he can see the first proper test of the wards, as Gwynn sends a wraith against it. He sees Mordred stagger, slightly, as if a load’s been dropped on his back, but he doesn’t fall. Mordred nods at him.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Kilgarrah start his dive, and the wraiths scatter, Gwynn hiding himself in the black. Aithusa is flashing up and down the cliff face, screaming with it, and he wants to tell her to pace herself, but she knows, he hopes, by now, what she’s doing. He can hear the shield ringing in his ear, as the crowd of the undead press closer. The crew spread themselves out, weapons held in varying degrees of certainty, and Leon shouting encouragement with it. Gwen’s looking fierce, if you look at her face, but in this life, she’s no blacksmith’s daughter, and her arms are trembling, even as she coaxes the fires about the circle to life, looking out at the nightmares that wait, a blade tucked through her waistband for ease of reach, in case. Just in case. She waits, flaming torch in one hand, and short blade through the other. The stage crew are a bit better off, although less familiar with swords than hammers, and most forgoing the blades for the maces, and torches, which they hold up to the shield, the heat of it pushing on Merlin like an oven. Pter’s juggling flames, without the aid of a torch, watching the dogs. Watching the undead. The knights, for such they are, are just as he remembers, although without their red cloaks, and chain mail, a little lighter in appearance, but just as impressive. Which would be fine, if they were facing beings that could be impressed. The undead Bane fans left that state several moons ago now, and are no longer impressed by anything, driven to flush out Gwynn’s prey. 

There’s then a rapping, the dogs pushing hard at the same spot as the wraith had done. Digging, in the same way as any hound, ever, for the joy of the dig, the joy of the feel of the dirt beneath the claws. Digging, these hounds, with purpose, looking up with those red eyes, time and time again to see their prey, waiting on the other side of the shield. 

“George,” he says, and then calls again, the first instance having been lost to a dry throat and the sounds of wraith cry, and dog howls. “George,” and George wheels about, almost lopping off Merlin’s ear. 

“Sorry,” says George. “I’m a little on edge, Master Merlin.”

“What is this headland made of? What’s under us?” Merlin asks, trying to remain calm and even in his voice, but he can hear the shake, even if George doesn’t.

“Well, it’s interesting you should ask. We had a survey done some years back, just to see. Erosion, you know. While we have some slate and shale, as you would expect, we actually have the Tintagel Volcanic Formation, and there’s a fault that runs right through this here island. There’s been some excellent fossils found here, I’d be delighted to show you back in the visitor centre.” George cuts off abruptly, as one of the white dogs circles back around, to stare at him through the shimmer of the shield. 

“Any limestone, George?”

“Yes, of course. Endemic to the area, all these cliffs. Why do you ask?”

Merlin swears, quietly, and looks at Morgana. She looks at him coolly, and he’s not sure which past life she’s dwelling on. He’s no choice but trust to this one. Best friends that ever there were, rather than mortal enemies, he’d chosen, and he hopes she’d chosen the same. Morgana, he calls silently. They’re going to come up from below. There’ll be tunnels, and if there are no tunnels, they’ll make them. We haven’t shielded the ground. She blinks, and looks at her feet, crouching to feel. Looks up, to him, and Mordred and her face, paler than ever, is answer enough. Do it, he calls. Do what you can. I’ll hold this one. She casts, but it’s too late to be worth much, and she’s never, in any of the lives he can remember, been a defensive caster, better on the offence, and this life holds the same. 

There’s a hand, and then another, scraping their way, blistered and rotting flesh with it, pushing through the pebbled path, and that body collapses on the emergence. Elyan stabs it anyway, just to be sure, and it stops moving. That body is pushed aside, and more swell up out of the ground, like an antnest disgorging ants, but these are no ants, bigger, and more determined, and as soon as one’s up, the next emerges, and not just from one spot, from multiples, breaking Arthur’s people into couples, and singles, and the first of the stage crew is swarmed, and goes down, the screams awful until they cut off with a gulp, and Pter casts flames, exploding them into parts that mercifully cease movement. 

Then the attack comes in earnest, the undead from below, and the dogs scraping under the edges of the shield. There’s a hand on Gwen’s ankle, and Elyan cuts it off from the body that wields it, looking triumphant, he’s saved his sister, and Merlin smiles at him as wide as he can, reassuringly, half looking, while he tries to repel the undead from the Tintagel custodians who weren’t meant to be there at all. His smile fixes, turns to a grimace as Elyan is dragged below, down into the tunnel, eyes wide and screaming, and Merlin’s stomach turns over, and even in that instant, he’s lost George, stumbling under a mound of the undead. About the circle, it’s a similar story. Pter’s casting flames at the undead, but they continue to move, and act, aflame, and they corner him, five of them. Blazing, and although Merlin casts a blow of wind, pushing three of them off, the two that have him, already have him firm, and he dies, in a giant gust of flame, taking them down with him. He can’t unleash his power in a mighty knock back, to take all that emerge, without hurting his friends, his people. He’s trapped.

He recognises the spells Morgana is casting, none of them pure, and white and simple, taking them one by one and it keeps a good amount of the undead at bay, away from Gwen, and some of the Bane. It’s slow work though, too slow, individually. Meanwhile, Mordred, and the other magic users stand back to back, as single a unit as the knights across the circle. Merlin can feel them pushing down, repulsing the undead, but it’s not strong enough, not strong enough against the animating power of the Hunt. 

The knights are just as deadly as they were centuries before, and move in the same co-ordinated way as they once did, Gwaine executing rolls over Percy’s back as he used to in the Rising Sun to smash in heads, Galahad executing half lunges to reach under the guard of the undead, and Leon to spin from behind to take off the arms that reach for him. In the centre of it all is Arthur, moving into gaps, and closing them up behind them. He has everyone’s back, and everyone has his, and they move as if they’ve trained together every morning, as they once indeed had. It’s a beautiful thing to see once more what had so enchanted him as a young and feckless teen, the manservant with all the secrets to hide, watching the men with no secrets at all except that of hard work and deep talent in the art of sword play and bare knuckle fighting, the art of living with honour. It’s a beautiful thing, but it’s not enough. Even as their patterns emerge, and solidify, they’re broken apart by the chaos of the undead, who move unpredictably, and their bodies are no longer hardened by rigorous exercise, playing in a band, even the way the Bane has done, is simply not the same, even if their guitars outweigh their swords, they’re not wielded the same way. Merlin can see the swords heavy in their hands. 

He, too, is starting to feel it. The tendrils of the Hunt eat at his shield now like acid, and it sizzles across his nerves like it too. He’s fed power to Morgana, for her attacks, and that too has sapped him. It’s been, he thinks, an hour. Maybe two at most. The Hunt rides as long as the night, unless they’re called off, and there’s too much of it left to think that any of them will last it. He’ll hold, as long as he can, and then none of them will. Above, Kilgarrah is decimating the wraiths, and the wyverns appear fully occupied with Aithusa and the battle of the cliff. There’s no help to be called on there. 

“Merlin,” Arthur calls, and he startles. “I need you to open the shield. I have to go out.”

“Nah, don’t fancy it,” says Merlin, although he’s gritting his teeth, and intermittently starting to see spots at the sides of his eyes. 

“We talked about this, Merls,” says Arthur, severing another undead’s arm neatly off, and his voice is getting a little bit closer.

“No,” says Merlin. “You said a lot of stupid things, and I let you say them. Doesn’t mean you’re going out there. It’s not your dad. I told you. You don’t need to do this.”

“You know me Merlin,” says Arthur, “I never listen to you.”

He places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin can feel the heat of it through his shirt, through the jacket, through every beat of his heart. “Let me go, Merlin. Everyone here doesn’t have to die, if I do this. I have to save my people. I have to save you. Let me.”

Uther’s shade is waiting outside, dark eyed, holding a spectral sword, holding out a hand, beckoning. Above him, Gwynn sits his horse, a death grin about him. 

Merlin can hear the screaming behind him, and that’s Gwen, and Lance behind her, swearing in French. Lance has never used that language before, it’s not right. There’s acid eating up his arms now, the short sharp pain of it countering any warmth he feels from Arthur’s body, standing behind him.

“Please,” asks Arthur, one last time. 

Merlin’s never been able to say no to Arthur, and he can’t now, not really. Doesn’t mean he’s going to let Arthur go alone. He lifts another shield, this one behind him. What protection he can leave, he does, this time in a bubble shape, rather than a dome. Whatever’s in there with them, they’ll have to take care of. Morgana holds up a hand, either in blessing or in farewell, it’s unclear, and she’s too busy to verbalise, Mordred too busy to notice.

He lets the outer shield fall, and lets himself feel Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, for the last time, as he waits for the Hunt to fall. 

“Merlin,” says Arthur, in what would sound like exasperation, if it wasn’t Arthur, and it wasn’t Merlin. There’s nothing more to be said. 

“Come down here, Gwynn ap Nudd, you coward,” shouts Merlin. If he’s going to go out with Arthur, he’s going to go out facing as big a bad as he can. He’s never liked the Hunt. A bully, and a thief, and a sore in Rhiannon’s side. “Face me, if you dare, off your horse. Or are you afraid you’ll lose?”

Gwynn hisses, and the sound crackles the clouds, lightning hissing about them out to sea, but never touching it. Kilgarrah swoops down, leaving behind trails of wraith smoke, and flames at the heels of the horse, who bucks, and kicks out, against the air, against nothing, and Merlin’s brain is starting to hurt. The white spots have grown, Arthur’s hand leaves his shoulder with one final clasp, then he strides forth to meet his father. Gwynn’s still observing from above. 

“You are a disappointment,” says Uther, as he lifts his blade before him, leaving behind white shadows against the dark. “Every day of your life, I regret.”

“Yeah, well,” says Arthur. “You’re failing to be dead. That’s something that people usually don’t fail at. I wouldn’t be too quick to judge.” He lifts his sword, and meets Uther’s blow straight on.  
Uther’s blade vibrates, and Merlin doesn’t think it’s meant to. He takes a second, to look hard at it, and he’s right. It’s not all there. There’s no substance, there’s only form given weight by Gwyn. It’s all an illusion. There’s nothing that can hurt Arthur, unless Arthur allows it, which means that this is all part of Gwynn’s plan, which means – and he turns too late. 

Which means that Gwynn doesn’t intend Arthur to fall to a wraith, no matter how much it wears of Uther’s shade. Gwynn’s horse is even now descending, riding the winds down behind Arthur, his sword held as a lance, there’s no time. There’s no chance. Merlin screams anyway, screams into Arthur’s face, as bad as any panto audience, behind, behind you, but Arthur does not move from facing Uther’s shade. 

There should be a word for the feeling that washes over your body when hope dies. It’s a cold feeling, starting in your gut, and rising up through your throat, and then back down your spine, and Merlin has it now, as Gwynn’s blade pierces through Arthur’s body, no armour to turn it away. Merlin does not, cannot, take his eyes from Arthur’s face, from that look of surprised horror, his mouth hanging open, almost in apology. Cannot take his eyes away, even to see Gwynn call off the Hunt, the shades dissipate, the undead collapse, the hounds turn away from the shield, cannot break from Arthur’s face, even as his eyes close. He can feel the life leave him, that brilliant spirit silenced, as sure as he can feel his own pulse. Merlin can hear Gwynn laugh, triumphant, and wrong, as he hauls up Arthur’s body, to sling across the horse in front. 

“I told you, little falcon,” says Gwynn, gathering his reins in his other hand, over Arthur’s body, the blood still dripping down dark in the night. “You cannot hope to best me. When next I ride, there will be none to stop me.”

Merlin finds he’s bitten into his lip, and has to wipe at it before he can speak. “Because of Arthur,” and he wills his voice steady. “Because of tonight, I believe you will find when you return below, as you must, that you will be only permitted to ride when Rhiannon allows it, and that, only as you once did, for the balance of things and no more. I do not need to hope to best you. Rhiannon has done that, even if it is Arthur who paid the price.”

Gwynn looks, as best Merlin can tell, displeased, like someone’s taken something pleasurable from him. His best dog. His fastest horse. Something coils, deep in his gut, a sense of outrage. He can feel the lives the Hunt has taken, all people that were alive, and warm and on the beach the day before. Who built things, who loved things, just as Arthur had done, and Gwynn dared to be displeased? He took Arthur, Arthur and his stupid grin, and his sense of duty and nobility, and the way in which he laughed, with his head thrown back, and his neck too vulnerable, and his music, and his friendship, and his love. Arthur is dead. 

“You will leave,” says Merlin. “And you would do well to keep to the limits Rhiannon allows. You have taken a great treasure from me. From us all. I have nothing left. Do you know what they say, Gwynn ap Nudd, of men who have nothing left to live for?”

He has magic, left, some. He has power left, some. His dragons yet live. His people are safe, protected behind the shield. Gwynn is foolishly waiting, hovering in the air, with Arthur’s body a trophy across his saddle. Gwynn is a target.

He calls down the lightning, and calls up his dragons. He can hear, as the dragons flame at the Hunt, as the lightning strikes through Gwynn’s horse, and down into part of the cliff path, blasting the limestone and shale and volcanic formations into the sea, Morgana calling his name, but all he sees, as he falls, is white. Arthur is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I'm going to go and cry myself to sleep now. 
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by nothing and no one. Merlin's officially done. 
> 
> Have a poem instead. just a little one. As a treat.  
> https://web.cs.dal.ca/~johnston/poetry/stopclocks.html


	23. New Albion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which those who did not die have to keep on living, punishment and reward rolled into one

The Daily Mail reports it as you would expect, tragic after hours party, ten dead, sex drugs and rock and roll gone very wrong. There’s no mention of magic. There’s a picture of Arthur and Uther from the beginning of the season. Uther is staring the camera down with his best smoulder, shaved head, and black eyeliner, touch of the lip gloss about it, black shirt open, a pendant hanging about his neck, and with a grip on his guitar that looks vaguely pornographic. Arthur’s head is thrown back, mouth open in glee, hair caught mid motion, guitar half lifted. Very alive. Headline, double Bane tragedy.

The local press reports the unseasonal weather, the crumbling of the cliff path, Tintagel Castle closed until further notice. Pendragon family wishes to extend its sympathies to all. €50,000 donation to castle upkeep, and fund established for the custodians who lost their lives. Only one of the five survived, and they’re not giving interviews. 

Someone from Rolling Stone rings Morgana, and she gives an interview. Merlin doesn’t read it. Gwen’s father Tom comes over from France. He has pictures of Elyan on a tricycle, age five. Merlin tries to look, but all he can see is Elyan’s face disappearing under the undead. Gwen aggressively tunes the guitars until strings snap, and no one plays them.

There’s a search party, the coastguard by sea and shore. No traces found. If Merlin were there, he’d tell them not to bother. Arthur’s not there to be found.

He’s numb with it. At the house, people move about him, and say things to him, and he smiles, the big goofy grin of his that they expect, that make them feel better, look, he’s coping. It’s a small thing to do, really. Arthur would have done it, and so he does. He makes Gwen cups of tea, and makes sure she has a rug. For when she’s not aggressively tuning guitars. He listens to Tom’s stories about Elyan, and Gwen and the tricycle. Elyan hated peas, Merlin never knew. Merlin wonders what other stories he’s missed. He should have been faster. He should have thought harder. He should have protected them all. He shouldn’t have let Arthur do it.

They never find Kay. He was there at the start of the terror, and he was with them, and then he wasn’t. Merlin writes the letter to his son, back up in Somerset, Morgana sends it. A man comes to the house one day, and takes the squeezebox, Kay’s things. What’s left of the stage crew descend on him like a long lost brother, and perhaps he is. Merlin should have paid more attention, and now all he has left are the holes where people used to be. They lost three, and for the life of him, Merlin can’t remember their faces, just the bulk of them, and now gone. He’ll never know them.

Mordred sleeps for three days, after. Merlin hasn’t slept since. At night, Aithusa takes him on her wings, which he swears have grown bigger, and they ride the winds, but there’s no sign of the Hunt. The clouds that they push through leave him wet, and they take the sound away with them. 

The funerals are individual, and equally awful. At Kay’s, Morgana speaks, and Merlin can see her assuming the Pendragon stance to do it, it’s an open stance, equal weight distribution. Uther had it on stage, and Arthur had it both on and off. She commands attention, and she uses it well, speaks plainly, and to the point, without histrionics, and with love, the same love that she showed the crew back in the Horse and Chain, and all the way through, and after, Kay’s family kiss her, one by one, like she’s a queen, some on her cheek, some on her hand, and she bears it regally. Kay’s family, it seems, was large, or perhaps it’s that there were more people that loved him that Merlin suspected. The crew fight for the honour of carrying out the casket. His body is taken back up to his grounds. After the first one, there’s a new page opened on the app, funeral details, cemetery maps, crematorium times, and Morgana updates it silently, before each one. Morgana doesn’t cry, not in front of Gwen, because that sets Gwen off. Merlin has a reminder on his phone, a private one, which flashes MORGANA WATER, every two hours, because she’s dehydrating from all the crying she’s not doing. She cries, sometimes, on him. But only if they’re alone. They don’t talk about Arthur. They don’t talk about their past lives. When they’re alone, Morgana cries, big ugly tears, that leave her face red and blotchy, and if she’s been foolish enough to think that that day was a regular one, for dramatic make up and mascara, she smears black as ashes, and leaves it on his shoulder, if she lets him. 

It’s a tenuous equilibrium. The nature of equilibriums is that they break. 

Morgana files the paperwork, it’s a normal day when she does it, two weeks after, there’s no skies breaking, or unearthly crows, it’s a quiet Thursday at the courthouse in Portcurno. Arthur is declared dead, legally. The Pendragon family lawyers are called, and they tell Morgana grave things, in grave tones, these things take time, and she looks at Merlin, like he can fix this for her, and he can’t. Legal things are their own kind of magic, lawyers are best left to do the things that only lawyers can do. Merlin wouldn’t know where to start. Morgana gives them Arthur’s will, the last to be extracted from the bundle that were put together before the end came, and they leave her a copy to read.

At dinner, over yet another version of chicken stew, the Tintagel housekeeper knows an infinite variety, she taps her glass for silence, and the room filters mostly quiet. 

“You are all welcome to stay, as long as you like. I want to say that first,” she says, addressing the room generally, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes. “But you don’t have to. You’ll always be welcome here, if you don’t. I want to talk about Arthur. My beautiful, stubborn, lovely brother.”

Merlin looks at his plate, and the chicken stew, and tries not to listen. Lance clasps her hand, beside her, but she shakes it off. 

“He wouldn’t want us to be stupidly sitting about the house like this. All you bright people, so full of life, and bravery. He left a note, with the will, because of course he did, of what he hoped we would do. Two things. The first is with the lawyers now and is about the future. Think about this, before you tell me what it is you think. At his heart was music, and he loved making it with all of you. All of us. He wants us to keep doing it. He wants me to form a new band? A new recording label of sorts. All the kinds of music, that we play, he wants us to do it under that. Like we did before. He even picked out a name, the foolish man, New Albion.”

Gwen holds her hand to her mouth, looking up at Morgana. Morgana’s half smiling, and the silly black mascara is streaking under her eyes. “I can think of nothing more wonderful than to keep his legacy alive like this. But, of course, there’s the real world to think of. You all have your own lives to run, bills to pay. You are none of you bound to do this. I am no queen to command you in this. Even if I was, I would not have the right to do it, without your consent.”

Merlin’s not even aware that he’s standing, until Gwaine tugs at his leg. “She’s not done, my keen lad. Take a seat.” He nods at Morgana, but he can’t sit. He can’t really think.

Morgana nods back, and bites her lip, briefly, looking down at her plate, and then back up at Merlin. “The second is about the past. The recordings Merlin made, of our night sessions. If all are willing, he thinks we should release them. They’d finance our new label, for a bit. But we couldn’t do it without your consent. The lawyers’ll have a fun time working out the copyright beasties, but that’s the sort of things the lawyers love. And it’ll need a good sound engineer to work on it. If anyone knows one who’s willing.”

Merlin sits down, abruptly. He can’t do it. He can’t possibly listen to Arthur, alive and well and happy. She can’t ask that of him. He can’t let anyone else do it either. 

There’s people talking about him, over the table. Someone’s playing music, somewhere, and he can’t stand it. He won’t stand it. He pushes his chair back, and it catches on the carpet underneath. He shoves it harder, and it falls. 

“Merlin,” says someone beside him, but he can’t listen. 

“Just off to polish some brass,” he says, and puts his best don’t mind me grin on. Twinkle those eyes, Merlin. Don’t be such an idiot Merlin. He can remember it all. Every look, from the last to the first, always the element of surprise. Arthur always outdid his expectations, and expected the same from him, and he can’t do it. Not without Arthur. He can’t do this again. There’s nothing left of Merlin, not without Arthur. 

Upstairs, he packs his bags. His eyes keep welling up, and he’s making embarrassing noises, half a hiccup, half a sob, and he can’t stop it. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to be anymore. He can’t be here. He can’t hear that noise any more, it’s moved well beyond hiccup stage into something that belongs to a wild animal. He is a wild animal. He’s aware, dimly, of having put the bag down. Of picking the pillowcase up, and burying his face in it, muffling the sobs, faintest of faint traces of Arthur on it. He’s gone. Arthur is really gone. 

He’s screaming it, he thinks. It’s all very embarrassing, but he can’t stop. 

Someone’s holding him, but it’s not Arthur. There are people, holding him, easing him down to the bed, prising the pillow from this grip. 

“I’m okay,” he says, cry snorting it. “Really, I am. I’m okay.”

Gwaine cradles his head back onto his chest, arms around, and rocking him like a baby. “Sure you are, big fella. Sure you are. Just go to sleep now for me, go to sleep.”

Morgana’s there too, holding his hand. “Tag,” she says. “it’s your turn to cry. If I can make it, so can you.”

Merlin laughs, and inhales snot, and chokes again. “Don’t be nice to me, it’s too confusing.”

Morgana tousles his hair. “You’re still my Merlin, my best shining friend, even if he’s not here. It’s about time we were nice to each other, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know how,” says Merlin, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Gwaine smooths his hair back, smoothing it, over and over, like Merlin’s fine silk, like he’s armour being polished. “That’s okay,” he says. “We do it together. We do it together. We do it together. Sleep now. Sleep.”

Merlin sleeps. 

In his dreams, he sees Gwynn, furled in slim green, and blistered, staring at him, full of ill will. He bends in, closer, closest and runs a finger across his cheekbone, it feels like it slices to the bone. He sees Rhiannon, crowned with stars, looking triumphant, a cloak of feathers, white and brown, fluttering down about her as she walks, serene as the stars, sadness still wafting about her, eyes still mournful, even in her triumph. She blows him a kiss, and he half fancies he feels it land, warm and soft as a blue butterfly. He sees his father, astride a dragon, his face turned away. He’s not sure if any of these things are real. 

As he’s half awake, he sees Arthur. Arthur, warm, and alive, and lit by the sun in their bed, white sheets about him, bare to the waist. Arthur, half awake, and breathing. “Go back to sleep, cabbage head,” dream Arthur says, and he does. 

When he wakes, he pats the bed beside him, and of course it’s cold. He’s the fool for thinking anything other.

Downstairs, the house is heaving with activity. People are moving bags in, and out. Instruments float over their heads, unaided, and he sees Mordred in a corner, furrowed brows, making it all happen. Mordred smiles broadly, and waves, and a snare drum crashes to the ground.

“Sorry, Phlemus,” says Mordred, and floats it back up. “Morning Merlin.”

It’s like there’s a spotlight that’s been turned on above his head, as people turn to look at him, and he half stumbles the rest of the stairs. 

“Morning all,” he says, and tries for the kitchen. A path clears for him, and he awkwardly traverses it. No one else talks to him, and he’s grateful, to an extent, but also very weirded out. The reason for the weirdness becomes apparent when he passes a mirror in the hall. A cut on his cheek, dried blood. A circlet of blue butterflies, alive, and fluttering in his hair. He pauses, for a second, and coaxes one onto a finger. It rests there, for an instant, wings opening and closing, tiny feet on his knuckle, before it flutters off, disappearing as it nears the darkness. 

In the kitchen, he washes his face, and makes a sandwich. His cheek stings. His muscles ache. Chewing the sandwich hurts. Swallowing the tea hurts. Somewhere, someone in the house is playing a guitar, and that hurts too. 

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Morgana says behind him, touching his hair, and removing the butterflies, one by one, letting them fly free. “I was getting worried. Also your phone kept telling people to give me water. You’re very sweet when no one notices, aren’t you?”

Morgana’s smaller than she appears, when he hugs her. She seems to be more tolerating the hug for his sake now, though, patting at his back absent mindedly, rather than the desperate grabbing of days before. It’s her making the comforting noises to him now, rather than the other way around, and he laughs, as he pulls back. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Morgana, that I wasn’t sweeter all the other times. I’m sorry I killed you. I mean, I’m sorry that it got to that point. I really am.”

She gently pushes him on the shoulder. “As much my fault, I think, as yours. I mean, I did very much try to kill you too. Best friends that ever there was, now. I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay, because that’s bollocks. Every time people ask me that, I want to kill them. That or cry. I assume you’re the same. So I’m not going to ask.”

Merlin smiles. She was always better at people than he gave her credit for. “If you want me to do it, I’m in. But I need to go back to London. Do it properly.”

Morgana frowned at him, pulling up a stool to the work bench. “I don’t want you to be in London by yourself. Not like this.”

Merlin smiled, his biggest look how totally normal and fine grin that he could manage. It didn’t really convince him either. “I won’t be alone, Gaius is back there by now.”

Morgana snorted. “I wouldn’t trust Gaius to supervise an empty paper bag. Let alone the most powerful magic user of any generation.”

“Oh, you do say the most ridiculous things.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true. I know that if you could have saved him, saved all of them, you would have. Sometimes you don’t win. Sometimes the stakes are stacked. What else did you say to me? We have to go on, because that’s what Arthur’d want. That’s what you said, Merlin.”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid. I mean, not more stupid than normal. Not just because I’m in London. Besides, you said everyone’s free to go.” He shoved the crusts of his sandwich down. Arthur’d said that was why his hair was so unruly. He’d been wrong. He smiled again at Morgana. Nothing to see here. 

“You’re not everyone.” Morgana’s frown continued, and he pushed the furrows on her brow down. She flicked his hand away. “No, I won’t have it. You won’t go without making me a promise, and I know, Emrys, that you keep your promises. Make me this one: that you won’t do anything irrevocable, you won’t go anywhere unfindable, you won’t do anything stupidly heroic and crazy without me. He was my brother, Merlin. And for what ever you think about all my past lives, know this, I loved him in all of them, and best in this one. Don’t do anything without me.”

He brought his hand back, and cupped her cheek. “Give me the same, and I’ll agree.”

She shook his hand free again. “You have a compact, Merlin. Emrys. Send me any mail that’s turned up that you think needs an official going over. Banks, accountants, whatever.”

Merlin’s puzzlement must have shown, because she mirrored his gesture, smoothing down his furrowed brow. “If you don’t stay at the flat, I don’t know what the point of you is. He left it to you, were you not listening? That and most everything else, by my reckoning. Everything that wasn’t the Bane. We’re meant to be running New Albion together. You weren’t listening. I’m sorry. Merlin, don’t cry. Don’t. Oh my sweet lad, come here. Come now.”

When he’d recovered himself, or at least stopped making the terrible gasping cries, he blew his nose, noisily on his red kerchief, and looked her in the eye. “I do love you too, you know. You’re amazing. You’re unstoppable. I’d be mad to try do anything stupidly heroic, if I can think of anything stupidly heroic to do, without you.”

She looked him over, and straightened his hair up, wiped the dried blood off his cheek. Closed her eyes, briefly, and he felt her shield, her healing, pass over him, warming him inside and out. “You’ll do. You’ll do, Merlin.”

He must have said his heartfelt goodbyes to everyone, but he didn’t consciously register any of them, until he found himself on the train, Aithusa on his lap, his duffel bag on the rack, and Gwaine by his side, eating popcorn methodically from a bag. 

“So, we’re going to the pub,” announces Gwaine. “I know you’ve a job to do, and all, but I know a little about this. This whole thing,” and Gwaine sweeps his arms wide, incidentally dropping popcorn on the table, the seat across from them, and Merlin, largesse for the pigeons, if only there were pigeons in the carriage, which there were not. “For me, there were shadows across every little thing. I’d look at a chair, and I’d think, Simon sat there. I’d look at the painting in our living, and think, Simon hated that picture, he thought the artist a fool and laughed at me when I bought, and then we shagged on the sofa. Everything, Merlin. So we’re to the pub, first. Then you can fumble the door open, and crash yourself off to bed, and you’ll know that I’m there, in the next room, and I’ll make loud Gwaine noises in the morning, so you’ll know that it’s me that’s there, and you won’t be surprised when it’s not him. Then I’ll toodle off and do my things during the day, when you’re away with Gaius, and the flat won’t be empty when you get home to it. How does that sound?”

Merlin picked the popcorn off his lap. It was salty, and stale. “Gwaine, for feck’s sake. I’m not going to the pub. You’re not getting me drunk. I’d be glad of the company, but I’m a little scared, to be perfectly honest with you, about what I’d do if I was hungover and feeling like this. Come to the flat with me, and we’ll have a tea, and we’ll go out for a curry. I’ll be fine.”

Gwaine tossed a popcorn at him, and Merlin fried it, midair. “Enough, Gwaine. I’m not you.”

“True enough,” said Gwaine. “You wish you had my hair.”

Merlin elbowed him, hard. “Curry, and sleep. That’s all I’m looking for tonight.”

Gwaine shrugged, and ate another handful of popcorn. “We’ll see.”

Three hours later, it transpired that Gwaine was right. They’d got to the front door of the flat, Merlin’d even opened it. Bags had been dumped in their respective rooms. Merlin’d stood in the bedroom for a hot minute, trying not to hyperventilate, and walked out of the flat, Gwaine following after, until they emerged out onto the laneway. It turned out that a Merlin could be steered by his elbow, and Gwaine was good at it, all the way to the Horse and Chain, and Merlin was one pint in before he said thank you. Gwaine was good enough not to say I told you so, and Merlin was good enough to say how could you have believed me when I said I’d be fine.

“I remember the first time,” said Gwaine, “the first time I saw him. I remember it like it was yesterday. He was riding a horse, and he had a blue cloak, all fluttering loose about his shoulders. Of course, it was no cloak, just a jacket that had come adrift, but I felt like I was seeing something that wasn’t meant to be there, not in this world, something glowing and too real. Too precious. Something I wanted like dragons want gold. Or whatever it is that your dragons actually hoard, I’m not sure. There was no one like that in Camelot for me. I wouldn’t have known what to do with him, if I’d met him back then. I’d have blown my chance, and then some, and not even known to care.”

Merlin pushed the coaster around in the beer puddle in front of him. “You were lovely to everyone back then, sure you were.”

“Oh aye, to everyone and all. Didn’t have to work hard for it, either, back then. It’s the hair, don’t you know? Not the point. I had fun, and that’s all I had, and truth be told, I wasn’t interested in more. I lived for those moments when we were all doing things, you know? In the fight. In the fuck. In the drink. It wasn’t about who was on the other end of the blade, or the body, just so long as they could keep up. Mind, if you’d ever taken your eyes off your man there, I’d have given you a run for your money and all.” Gwaine tipped his emptying pint glass at Merlin, who tipped his right back.

“I couldn’t keep up with you, not even in a month of Sundays. Back to your story, before I get mawkish.”

“A beautiful man on a white horse, is there a finer thing? Aye, and him off it. He came down to me, like someone stepping out of a dream, and he asked me did I have the time. I said for him I had all the time in the world, and his ears flushed, but not his cheeks, nor anything else about him. He had such ears, Merlin, sharp, and flush back against his head, not like yours, lovely in their own way. You had to work, to see them. Hidden back, in his black hair. I should have known. Even if I’d known, I’d not have cared. I wouldn’t change a thing about it.”

“In your own time, Gwaine. Make a bit of sense, would you?”

“One thing lead to another, and the next I knew, we were married. My idea, not his. My father, he told me I was mad. I was, I was mad for him. I wanted every part of him to be mine, and of mine to be his, and I saw no wisdom in waiting. I played along with the Bane, for a time, and Simon came with us. He was a man gifted with the numbers, and his clients would call him, wherever, when ever they had need, and so we had no need of a house, or whatever would tie us down. He’d tell me, after a concert, that I’d flubbed a thing, and made me tell him what it was that I was trying to do, and then he’d sit with me until I made that thing happen. Not a note of music in him, but for love of me. He’d not be nice about it, mind. He had a sharpness to him. He could cut to the quick, before you had your armour up, but then he’d have the balm for the wound in his other hand, and the way to build you to a better place after. I haven’t been right since he’s been gone. Not that I should be saying that to you, now. That’s not a helpful thing to say.”

Merlin finished his beer, wiping the back of his mouth. “You can say whatever you want to me, Gwaine. I’m drunk. That’s what being drunks’ for.”

“I’ll say this, then. I remember the night when he collapsed. I was on stage, and he was back of it, half asleep on one of those stool things. He liked to watch. He thought Uther was funny, but it was me that he was watching, and me he was there for. One minute, upright, the next he’d fallen. We had the time of it getting him to a hospital, we were up in Glasgow, and it was a Friday night, and there were fools a plenty with cut faces and broken ribs in the A&E. No one could tell me why he’d collapsed. One of the fools with a degree suggested he’d just had too much to drink, when he’d never touched a drink a day in his life. Never the drugs either.”

Merlin pushed the glass aside. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I didn’t understand either. We came back to London, and we had every test under the sun. He had no nasty little virus, or big one either, I’d been careful, and so’d he, as best we knew how. There was no cancer that any little scan could find, no label to pin on what he had. He’d very low iron, and so we ate naught but steak, morning, noon and night until we gagged with it, he had injections which burnt, and blazed up his side, so he said, and I’d still find him whiter than a ghost, and half conscious. I’d stopped touring with the band, then. We had a flat, then, in Euston, near the blood clinic at UCL, and the staff, they knew him by name.” Gwaine drained his glass, and stared into it. “They were all lovely, lovely people. But they couldn’t fix him. By the end, he had cheekbones sharper than yours, everything about him could cut to the quick, and there was no Simon to put me together again after he left. I’m damned if that’s going to happen to you, my friend.”

Merlin tried to smile, but it came out wrong, his mouth went funny with it. “I’m sorry I never met him. I mean, back then. And I hope he does come back to you, so I can meet him properly. I’d like that.” 

“I’d like that too. I would. I don’t have the first clue as to what’s going on, but that’s not for me to worry about. I’m never been one to worry about the future overmuch, you know me. He made me a promise, and he gave me clearish instructions, and I’ll follow them. I like it when someone gives me directions. If you know what I mean.” Gwaine waggled his eyebrows at Merlin, who failed to smile again.

“He faded, you say,” said Merlin, looking speculatively at the whiskeys behind the bar. 

“Aye, as the mist fades off the cliff in the morning, and just as harsh with it.” Said Gwaine, taking the hint, and rising to the bar. 

“I don’t think,” said Merlin to his hands. “I mean, I think.”

“Wait on sobriety, Merlin, to think,” said Gwaine, pushing a whiskey on ice across to him. “That’s what I think.”

“Did you ever meet his people?” asked Merlin, shuddering as the whiskey rubbed itself along his throat like an overgrown housecat. “His family?”

“No, Merlin, he didna take me home to meet his ma and pa. They lived abroad, he said, and they disapproved of his lifestyle. We live in a little bubble here, you know. Not everyone loves us.”

Merlin frowned. “No, that’s not what I mean. I can’t think with this beer in my head.” 

“Better drink the whiskey then,” said Gwaine, and Merlin obligingly took a gulp, wincing as the burn flamed down like a little tiger to play with the housecat. 

“I mean, people who are dead, right. They don’t normally turn up at karaoke.”

Gwaine smiled. “Wouldn’t have been my first thought for an activity of choice in the afterlife, no.” 

“And you kissed him.”

“Aye,” said Gwaine, smiling increasingly broadly at the memory. “That I did. I’d know those lips anywhere. No one’s ever kissed me the same as Simon. I’ve tried enough times, I should know.”

“You know what I think,” said Merlin, sloshing the whiskey as he took another gulp, this time neither wincing nor fighting the burn. “I think, I think that he was cursed. I think, I think magic. Yes. I think there was magic.”

“Oh, fuck me,” said Gwaine. “I’ve had enough of that shit, I really have. Enough whiskey for you, Merlin. That’s it for the night. No more thinking. Did we eat the curry, or did we just talk about eating the curry?”

Merlin poked at his stomach, sadly. “I don’t think we ate the curry. I think it might be too late for curry.”

It was indeed, too late for curry. There were some very nice people selling late night kebabs, and Merlin had his with onions, and extra chilli, on the basis that no one was telling him not to, and it was a night for burning, what with the whiskey and all. The flat was, as Gwaine had promised, less awful, after the drinking. Merlin made it as far as the bathroom, before he cried, this time, and that was the fault of the toothpaste, taunting him that he could buy which ever brand he liked now, Arthur wouldn’t know the difference. Arthur wouldn’t even know if he didn’t brush his teeth. He brushed them anyway, because it would have made him happy to know that Merlin was listening to him, even if he didn’t admit it. 

He could hear, vaguely, the sounds of Gwaine in the next room, the sounds of unpacking, and rummaging around, and door opening, and teeth being brushed, and back and bed creaking again. He changed, quickly, himself, and then stared at the bed. It was just a bed. He’d slept in many a bed in his time, he was good at it, a key skill of his, even, sleeping in beds. It would be fine. He made the bed, methodically, with the sheets from the cupboard, that smelt of nothing but laundry detergent and softener. It would be fine.

After he found one of Arthur’s shirts in the laundry bin, and took it to bed with him, and tried to pretend that he wasn’t doing it, it was fine. Just in case, just for Gwaine’s sake, he cast a slightly drink impaired shield about the flat, just in case. Curses didn’t go away just because you didn’t believe in them, after all. He wondered, though, where Simon, where Bertilak, had actually come from. Would Arthur mysteriously appear to challenge him to a duet, if he went and found a karaoke bar? He didn’t think so. He tried very hard to be angry at Arthur for being dead, but the whiskey just made him sad. And tired. So very tired. 

Merlin slept. 

In his dreams, Gwynn ap Nudd rode a sad looking horse, trotting down a lane, of winter snow. His face was turned away, and the lane turned, about a bend, destination unclear, and then there was only the snow, white, and crisp, no trace of the Hunt left. Waking, he felt arms about him, golden hairs brushing up against his own, warm chest behind, and about, and a leg between his own, half holding him down into the mattress, a nose in his hair, warm air behind his ears, a hardness to arch back into, and he did, feeling the chuckle into his neck, and the arms close upon him, holding him still. And he was happy.

Then the alarm on his phone rang, buzzing on the bedside and he awoke, in bed alone. 

“Morning, Merlin,” called Gwaine from the kitchen, and Merlin stopped grasping at the bed, for evidence that he’d not imagined things, that he surely must have. 

“Yeah,” said Merlin. “That.” He gave up and got out of bed, and admitted that it was in fact morning, and he did in fact have things to do other than wish Arthur was not dead. 

Gwaine had managed to bollix the shiny coffee machine into a cacophony of hissing, and he shooed him to the other side of the kitchen, and fixed it, by talking sweetly until it calmed down. There was toast, not even Gwaine could bollix a toaster, and there’d been bread in the freezer, but there was naught else in the fridge that wasn’t growing mould. It was difficult to feel sentiment in the presence of mould, and breakfast was successfully had without Merlin having the opportunity to think mawkish thoughts about the crumbs in the butter possibly having been left by Arthur. 

“So, you’ll be right now,” said Gwaine, more a pronouncement than a question. “I’m off to see a man about a dog. Or, you know, my lawyer about my affairs. All that kind of stuff. The nice man sends me letters a lot, and I haven’t read a scrap of them. I’m going to sleep at Euston tonight, air out my own ghosts and so on, but call me if you need me. It’s a couple of minutes in a cab, no matter when.”

“Right,” said Merlin blankly. “I thought you were staying on.”

“No, mate,” said Gwaine, picking up his duffel. “Morgana made me promise to let you be. Thinks I have designs on your virtue.”

Merlin laughed, cutting off when he saw that Gwaine was serious. “Right. This is how it’s going to be, isn’t it?”

“Ah, you love it, sure you do,” said Gwaine. “Pendragons are born bossy, it’s in their genes.”

Gwaine gone, there was nothing left to distract him in the flat. Perhaps a bit of light shopping to fix the fridge. 

He’s in the toiletries aisle, the basics of food having being acquired, when he discovers that in fact, shopping was a mistake, because he pulls up his shopping list, and of course, it’s still telling him about chicken, and basil, and chilli and coconut milk, and he stares at the toothpaste selection and tells himself he’s not going to cry. He’s dialling Morgana’s number on automatic before he knows he’s doing it, when in doubt, she’s told the Bane enough times, phone Morgana, and he’s in doubt now, for sure, so much doubt. A toothpaste selection full of doubt. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of the supermarket without making a spectacle of himself. 

“Merlin! What a delight. I was just wondering if you’d landed okay. Gwaine says he behaved, did he?”

“Can you, just, talk to me.” said Merlin, proud of himself for not crying into the phone, “I just need, just a moment,” and he hiccoughs a little, but there’s no banshee wail, Merlin for the win. He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, not dropping any groceries out of the basket. Morgana will make it right.

“Of course, my lamb. Of course. Today, Gwen managed to get Lance to play again, so that’s a step in the right direction. We had kidneys for breakfast, I don’t know what cook was thinking. I always think there’s a touch too much of the farmyard about them, but she said that they were Kay’s favourite, and so what could I do but eat them, but I swear, Merlin, I tasted pee.”

He’s at the end of the supermarket aisle now. She’s good, she’s very good. Merlin inhaled some of his tears accidentally. “That is the most uncouth thing I’ve ever heard you say, my lady.”  
He’s in the checkout line now. He’s no idea what’s in his basket any more. He hopes there’s more to the story.

“Tell me it’s not true, and I’ll stop. I said they were lovely, of course, but no. They were not, my love. Very much not. What else can I say? Percy has managed to break a cupboard that’s been robust since the sixteenth century. As ugly as sin, it was, and no great loss, but the poor wee man feels awful. So he’s trying to learn cabinet making so he can fix it. I’m not going to stop him now, but he can hardly make it worse, and that’s the truth.”

Merlin paid for the groceries he’d managed to collect, and ambled back towards the flat. “I don’t know about this, still. I can’t even get through a shop without you, and his voice is on there. It’s him, all over it. It’s going to take forever, even if it wasn’t.”

There was a sigh down the phone. “Merlin, all we’ve got is time, to be honest with you. Take as long as you like. Take as long as it needs. Take as long as you need.”

“Thanks for this, though. Gwen’s okay? I mean, for a given value of okay. You’re okay?”

Another sigh. “Gwen’s getting there.”

“You’re okay?”

A bigger sigh. “I’ve not organised the funeral yet.”

They were both silent. Merlin fumbled the key in, and let himself into the flat. He put the groceries away, listening to her breathe, watching the pantry moths flutter out. 

“You don’t have to do it yet,” said Merlin, wiping his face properly. “And you don’t have to do it alone. You shouldn’t do it alone. Come up to London, or I’ll come down to you, when we’re both ready. We’ll do it together.”

A silence, and Merlin could hear her moving about, shutting the door. 

“Go face the music, and we’ll talk later.”

“Yeah. Enjoy the next lot of kidneys, you overly polite lady.”

“Piss off, Merlin.”

Aithusa sat watching him, atop her case. Her eyes blinked, slowly, once, and then she disapparated. 

The Tube took less time than he’d imagined, all the times that the Bane had turned up late to recording sessions, Arthur’s flat to recording studio, door to door. Arthur’d invariably been hung over, and gruff with it, at least at first. 

Inside, KIL sat on a table, completely unlooked after, and Merlin huffed. Gaius hasn’t even plugged him in. He’s as flat as a pancake. An hour later, he’s got both dragons functioning, all charged, and ready to go, and KIL’s even talking to the table console again, no mean feat. There was a bit of a hairy minute, when he was under the table, adjusting the wires, when he remembered viscerally how Arthur’s hands had felt on his ankles, but luckily, there’d been a tiny short that stung his thumb, just at the right moment to avert further sentiment, and he’d held it together. 

There’s roughly forty hours of recordings, Aithusa’s display tells him. That’s going to be at least three weeks of editing, and balancing and tinkering to smooth out, and cull voices, and add in whatever needs adding, if it goes well. Longer if it doesn’t. He’s a picture in the back of his head, of Arthur, clasping him on the shoulder, as he left to face Gwynn. Of Arthur, at Camlann, shouting ‘on me’, in the midst of the red cloaked knights, and riding out against the odds. Against that, he’s no choice. He can do this. He has to do this. For Arthur. For Arthur, and the New Albion.

After all that, it’s a little of an anti climax to listen to the first recording. It’s a soft thing, that first one, built around something that sounds a bit like the Bane, the older ones that went for ballads, and lullabies, rather than anger and rage, and it’s built on the blues, and it’s just Arthur, and just him, and he can feel the point at which Arthur settles into it, and relaxes into the music making, and it’s lovely and sad. There’s some bits where it’s rough, sure, but he saves it down into its own file, as a raw cut. He hadn’t remembered that one. 

Aithusa’s kept Arthur telling them not to wake up Uther, and Morgana’s patter, after, and he saves that separately. Just for him. He doesn’t cry, he’s very proud.

The next one, though. Kay’s squeezebox, and Aithusa’s keyboard, and Arthur’s guitar, and the voices, Morgana, and Gwen, and Arthur, twining about, and the crew’s chorus, that breaks him a little. The one he’s already cut, the solid rope of music knotted together. He remembers that night, it was a good one. He can hear the banter, at the end, Morgana laughing, proper laughing, not the shiny one she does to tell people it’s okay. He needs her to laugh like that again. Somehow. 

The next recording takes him by surprise. He remembers Arthur’s anger. The music’s good, brilliant, even, but it’s got so many Bane motifs in it, that the recording society’s going to have a hell of a time piecing it out, how much New Albion’s derived from the Bane, what permissions are needed. It’s not like the Bane’s going to say no, but he’s glad that’s not his mess to unpick. Then, he hears Elyan drop in, and he can feel the anger ebb out, as he provides a backdrop, an alternative way to go, away from the ferocity in Arthur’s twang, and then there’s his own voice, singing a song he doesn’t even remember, in what sounds like Greek, maybe? He plays it over, a couple of times, and then he knows, principally because both Aithusa and Kilgarrah lift their heads to tell them that they’re sleeping perfectly peacefully, thank you. He’s saying, in Draconic, that all angry dragons need to calm down. That there’s to be no flame, no fire, that it’s time for rest. He strips that part out, very definitively. He’s not even sure how he came to be singing it in the first place, and he’s sure that it’s entirely coincidental that Arthur’s mood, his playing, changes over the course of the tune. Entirely. 

Then there’s the one that makes him stop. He didn’t think Aithusa’d even been on, but it’s on there, so she must have. It’s Arthur, noodling on the stupid Dragon’s Call thing. It’s Arthur, singing it, bedroom voice, husky and half asleep. It may not be as blatant as his version, which he tries not to listen to in the presence of people he knows, for sure, but it’s clear at this end of the journey, that Arthur’s singing it to him. For him. He must have been as thick as two planks of the proverbial. He must have been blind. So much time, and now there’s no time at all, and here’s Arthur, singing to him still. He listens to it one more time, just to wallow. Closes his eyes, even, to savour it. He saves it, and shuts down. 

The skies are dark, as he steps out. People streaming around him, alive, and well and happy, and all off in stories of their own. With people of their own, and tragedies of their own. Somehow, that helps, when he emerges at the other end of the Tube, and makes the short walk to the flat. Turns his key, and calls, hi honey, I’m home, I missed you, just to hear the lack of response. He’s alone, for the first time, completely alone. 

He makes dinner, because Arthur would have told him he had to. It’s baked beans on toast, because Arthur’s not actually there, but it still counts. He puts the single plate, and single set of cutlery in Arthur’s shiny dishwasher, and then he’s lost. What do people do, again, when they’re on their own? He strips the bed in the guest room, and puts the sheets in the laundry bin, which is now completely full. He plays the piano, a little. He stands on the balcony, with a glass of water, and watches the stars, until he’s too cold. He brushes his teeth, and goes to bed, and wills himself to sleep.

The next day, he tackles the breaking apart of the nights after Mordred came, and that’s easier, in a a way, because he’s not really in there, or he is, but he’s part of a large whole, that’s being built by Arthur, around each and every bit of his crew. He can hear it now, clearer than while he was sitting on the edge of the whole, tinged with green, what Arthur’s doing. There’s bits of people talking, in between, over the top. He’s calling the shots, sure, he’s telling people what they’re playing, but in the music that they’re playing, he’s letting their voices, their music shine. There, he’s asking Gwaine to give them a ballad, but he’s not telling him what it has to be, he’s ushering everyone in behind, by following first himself. Instead of mocking the snatch of Bach that Galahad picks out, he tells him to keep going, tells Lance to keep up, and they build it, build Galahad into something more. All he’d felt, at the time, was on the outside. What he sees now, as that there was no in, and no out. The circle was round. 

It’s easy, after that, because he knows what Arthur would have wanted. He sleeps at the studio, a couple of times, because it’s too much hassle to go home. He takes a day, now and then, to lie in bed, and listen to the music, just to have it his, before he releases it down the lines to Morgana. 

He toys with the thought of keeping Arthur’s huskiness a private thing, just for him, but it’s the sort of thing for which Arthur would have relentlessly mocked him. A souvenir, Merlin? Don’t be so sentimental, you giant blouse. And then, he would have kissed him tenderly, to take the sting out, and rubbed his nose with a finger, and traced his mouth until it tingled, until it was clear that Arthur was the giant blouse, and not Merlin, and one thing would have led to another. So, he doesn’t. It’s in there too. It’s part of the story and it’s part of the album. 

He’s loathe, though, to call it finished, even after a month, even after all the tracks are finished, and polished, and holding up their faces to mother after the bath, aren’t I good? 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Gwaine, and Morgana, and Lance and Gwen and the rest, because he does. 

He’s been texting with Gwen, and so he knows about all the dramas big and little, from the garden gnomes that are infesting the back yard, which apparently Galahad has something to do with, Agravaine demanding his rights, and being tossed out on his ear, Lot awkwardly asking for Gwaine, and Mordred telling him that he’s a coward, for which he had a panic attack after, when Lot was safely gone. Threw up on his own shoes, for which he was gently mocked, and then Percy took him for a pint. 

Gwaine’s still in London, anyway, and if his father had really wanted to see him, he knew perfectly well, Merlin’s pretty sure, Gwaine’s phone number. Gwaine’s been stopping by every so often, to check, so he says, that Gwaine’s hair is still the prettier one, but Merlin’s pretty sure it’s because Morgana’s making him. There are worse things in the world than being checked on by Gwaine, and Merlin’d know, because he’s met some of them, so he doesn’t object. 

Merlin should really finish polishing the tracks, and go back to Cornwall. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s that if he does, then they’ll have the funeral, and Arthur will really be gone. And he’s not ready for that. Which means that Merlin continues on, going to the recording studio, fixing things that aren’t broken, eating many custard creams with Gaius, lying in bed and hoping that tonight’s dreams won’t include Gwynn, and will include Arthur, all golden in the sheets, and usually being disappointed. 

It is likely that this state of affairs would have continued in the same manner for several more weeks had not, on the 3rd October, Morgana having had the dream. It is to be expected that one will dream longingly of one’s partner, should one’s partner predecease one, and construct all sorts of situations in which one can be with one’s partner again, and this was true of Merlin, whose dreams of Arthur were many and varied, ranging from the clubs of Soho to the wilds of the deserts of central Australia. A dream of one’s brother, featuring him sitting and looking regally bored, with a golden circlet about his dirty blonde head, wearing clothes that one last saw on him in much darker times, and hearing petitions of small and indistinguishable goblins, pookas, kikimora, and sundry persons appearing to be human, is not something that one usually expects to have, when one’s brother has died in terrible and mysterious circumstances that one would really prefer not to have to think about over much. Merlin had many questions, as one might expect, and Morgana had no answers to give him over the phone. It produced much excitement in them both. 

So it was, that on the 4th October, Merlin, and Gwaine, because excitement is a contagious thing, found themselves in possession of what was very close to an excellent album of eclectic music, all different, and yet all connected, Aithusa, and two seats on the train back down to Tintagel, to meet destiny once more, and see if they couldn’t twist the dragon’s tail one more time, to make it all make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the last year, i think we've all likely lost people. Funerals of any kind, awful, but I can roundly say that Zoom funerals are the worst.  
> This chapter brought to you by  
> Keeping the Dream Alive (Freiheit)  
> To You I Bestow (Mundy)  
> One Tree Hill (U2)  
> Who wants to live forever (Queen)


	24. Tir Annwn: the Golden Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the 3 Ms and Gwaine travel to Tir Annwn, and make a discovery

At first, they could not quite come at it, to make it make sense. Gwaine wanted to talk to everyone, and everyone wanted to talk to him, and Morgana could not, in common courtesy intrude. Then Gwen required that she take Merlin on a long walk by the coastline, to talk to him about a great many details of the upkeep of CALI, and Kil, and guitars, and musical instruments of all sorts, which Merlin took to mean that she was concerned to make sure that he was in one piece, which he was, and which meant that very probably, she was as well, which was for the best. Then everyone wanted to listen to the album, and then once they had listened to it, to talk about it, and to share do you remembers, and was that the bit when Percy fell over, do you think, and no one could begrudge that being done either, Merlin quite enjoyed listening to everyone else’s excitement, and Morgana’s face glowed with it, and that was for the best also. 

It was therefore not until two days beyond that that Merlin found himself in company alone with Morgana, saving only Gwaine’s presence, who did not count as being already read into the crazy, and would not make any more of a fuss or require explanations which Merlin would not be minded to give. There were also scones and tea, and clotted cream and house made strawberry jam, for Morgana did not believe that the supernatural should be faced on an empty stomach, for the which both Merlin and Gwaine were grateful. 

Merlin required that Morgana recount her dream, in minute detail, and Gwaine complained that listening to other people’s dreams was boring in the first order, and Morgana slapped him about the head until he shut up. Then she closed her eyes, and Merlin felt the push, saw Gwaine startle with it. Morgana’d not done this before, Merlin had not known she could. It was unnerving to a degree to have someone else’s reality superimposed on one’s own, to have another voice say I would have you see this, and nothing else, and know that there was no choice but to comply. It was a good thing that they were best friends that ever there were, thought Merlin, and not in this lifetime mortal enemies. A good thing indeed. 

In Morgana’s vision, there was a throne room, sparsely furnished, but evident all the same as a place of power, a place of importance, high ceilinged, and throne astride a platform, elevated above the rest. There was a throng, not a crowd, of individuals forming a queue, very orderly, from the rear of the long room to the platform. When Merlin looked closer, Morgana had been correct, it was a crowd of the folk below, to an extent, but Morgana had not had it quite right. In there were humans, or at least humans at first blush, but with a little something more. Ears, as pointed as that of the fae. A bulge of the back, wing shaped. Teeth that overhung the mouth, politely slipping out as if to say, they were sorry to intrude but they had had no choice in their existence. There were folk of the other kind, persons who if one had not looked closely, were in fact wolves, but betrayed themselves with human eyes, if you did. Tall slender spiders, with human hands. Shorter dwarven folk, axes crossed on their backs, with legs that were too slim to bear the brunt of mining. Horses only the height of a human, and with human ears. It was puzzling. Merlin had not seen these folk, in all his time below. Certainly not in a throne room. Certainly not being entertained by a king.

For when Morgana’s dream looked away from the throng of people, in a very English proper queue, patiently waiting their turn with no complaint, up the grey stones, and grey cobbles, and grey hangings that made up the hall, and turned to the platform proper, there was a king, and it was Arthur, as promised, and Merlin felt his body go very cold, very still, a shiver down him like frost prickling, even to see him in this manner. He’d almost been reconciled to the fact that he would never look on his face, not really, not see that smirk, the eyes that judged and teased, and loved him, and here he was, looking down the queue of supplicants, feet planted firmly on the ground, back as straight as the throne that he sat upon, alive at least in dream. 

Arthur was, unfortunately for Merlin, wearing clothes, and clothes of such exquisiteness, brocade colour, and deep rich grey, as purpled as a storm, with patterned trousers, and a crown that stood high on his head, rising spikes about the circlet, that it took quite a time to recount it. The throne he sat upon was solid grey oak, with trim of darkest dye, and the wall behind him, grey stones of large and uneven quality, and he, and his supplicants were the brightest thing in the whole of the hall. Arthur’s hair was long, and more golden than Merlin recalled, and he had, of all things, a beard, a moustache, and sideburns. But it was still, very much, Arthur, underneath all the cloaking, and the differences. It was still him. 

There was sound, but it was muted, in the manner of all dreams, and Merlin could not quite make out what was being said. Supplicants made their pleas, it was clear from their manner of address, approaching in their turn, sometimes in twos with gesturing between them, as if to explain the manner of a complaint, or a request, and Arthur would sit, his complete attention on the persons making the request, no slouch, no weary chin on a bent elbow, no eyes rolling in the way that sometimes he would affect in Bane rehearsals a slight year ago. The supplicants stood to receive his judgement, and bowed, and made their exits, sometimes with a delivery of goods to a servant, robed in a grey tunic, who would disappear out a side tunnel to deposit them, whoever knew where. There was a system, and it was being executed. There were judgements and they were being passed. This was no three month king, still settling into his position, with advisors on either side to prompt where he faltered, for Arthur did not falter. Arthur was all that the supplicants required, and he was unquestionably ruling, unquestionably a king, as he had done, must have done, for some time. Alone.

It was a puzzlement. It was a throne room, that was true enough, and Arthur truly did sit a throne, true that too. But it was no throne that Merlin had encountered in all his time below, in all his lives above, nothing against which he could cross check, or categorise or easily reference. It was not a puzzlement he could readily solve, above. It might not even be a puzzlement he could readily solve, below. But it was not a puzzlement from which he would walk. Any chance, no matter how remote, that Arthur was still alive in some fashion, was not to be missed. It was just, he was not entirely certain, on how to use the chance to its best advantage. For he had a shape of it, of the story as a whole, of the cycle as it turned in on itself, and this, Arthur sat upon a grey throne, that part did not fit. He needed to be there. He needed to see the thing for himself. And that was a lie, too. He needed Arthur, if there was still an Arthur in any sense, and that was the beginning and the end of it.

He took a long walk about the grounds, and then up into the hills, and then down into the hills. There was no Aithusa to fly and to cajole away from the pursuit of seagull. There was no hunt, chasing him, no Arthur to chase. He bit at his lip, the better to think, and it did not work. He called his mother, just to hear his mam’s voice, and then did not quite know what to say, how to explain himself. To say, mam, I’m going below again, and I might not be back for quite some time. To say, do you remember how many times I’ve been your child, and was it always and ever Myrdden who sired me, and what were all the names he used? How many times has the wheel spun for you? Would you choose this life, if it was your choice? None of those things did he say. Instead he said 

“Did I tell you, we’ve a new album. Gaius will send you a copy, you’ll love it mam. Even a song in Welsh for you?” 

And she said:

“I’m sure I will, my darling boy, I’m so proud of you, I always am.”

And she did not ask, is this the one for your golden lad, the one who’s gone, and he did not say, my heart is broken, and I’m going in search of him. Instead he said:

“I might be going abroad for a time, to the place I went to when I was twenty one, do you recall? I need to see if I can help. I might not be home for Christmas. If I go, mam, I might not be home.”

And she did not say, please, for the love of all that’s good, do you not do this thing again. Stay where I can keep you safe, and he did not have to say, I have to, mam. There’s a choice that I’ve made, and I cannot live with myself if I do not go. And instead she said:

“I’ll miss you rare, Merlin. I’ll miss you. I’ll put a log on for you at midnight, and I’ll think of you, and you send me a message when you’re able. There’s been too many lost souls at the hospital, no papers, no homes to them at all, and if you can help any of them, it’s a kindness.”

And he did not say, I do not know if the two are connected. I do not know any more how anything is connected. Instead he said:

“I love you, mam. I always have, always will.”

And she said: “I love you, my Merlin. Always have, always will.”

He hung up the phone, and put it safe in his pocket. He saw, from the corner of his eye, a pixie take cover, and he ignored it. 

On the walk back, he spotted two gnomes, one of whom gave him the finger, which was a little harsh, as he hadn’t been singing that loudly, and he had quite the decent voice to him, so his mam’d said, and he had the album to prove it. Then, on the back steps to Tintagel House, he saw Mordred, casually chatting to someone who was clearly from the water, at least on her mam’s side, as casually leaning on her selkie skin bundled under an elbow as Mordred was casually leaning on his violin case, and then he thought a little harder, as he went to go inside. Then he thought some more. 

“Mordred,” he called. “I wonder. Would you like to go on a trip? A trip, quite soon?”

Mordred looked up, an expression of bemusement crossing his face. The selkie shrugged, and descended the steps, forging her own path down through the bushes back down to the sea. 

“Of course,” said Mordred. “Never a dull moment about you, is there? What with one thing and another.”

Over a war council, and whiskey, it was debated. Merlin wanted to go now, immediately, without delay, at once, alone. However, this was a straw position, designed to go up in flames and be surrendered to the lesser position, of Merlin and Mordred going alone below. He could not have quite said why it was necessary for Mordred to come along with him, or that he would be able to pass, below, just that it was.

Then everyone wanted to go below, and Merlin had visions, not Visions as Morgana did, but he had a dreadful feeling all the same, that this would lead to some extremely unhappy outcomes, not least of which was that Lance had been told, on his life, that he was not to return, and he really did not want to test that, and so a compromise was further struck. That Merlin would go, with Mordred, but Morgana and Gwaine should also be in attendance. Morgana, because three magic users was better than one, and Gwaine because he pulled on all the heartstrings at once, and if he was that gifted with persuasion above ground, he’d hold his own below.

Then there were further conversations, out of which Merlin emotionally checked, things to do with lawyers, and wills, and the album, and even Tintagel House, should Morgana not return, and he probably, possibly, could have told you what the relevant decisions were, but frankly, he did not care any more. The album, and his part was done, and all the rest were details against which there was a giant storm inside, and its name was panic. If Arthur were still alive, every day above ground, he knew too well, counted for more below, and he was missing all the ones for which Arthur was alive below. And the days kept wearing on, and people had more and more questions for Morgana, and documents to sign, and contingency plans to develop, so that it seemed that it would never be time, until finally, Samhain, All Hallow’s Eve was upon them, the streets crowded with children dressed in a delightful melange of Yodas, Elsas, goblins, and pirates, and if not all the children were children, or indeed, human, it was probably the best time for it of all. 

And Gwen said, one last time, arms wrapped about Morgana like a teddy bear:

“Are you certain that this is the right thing to do? If Arthur is truly doing some good below, shouldn’t we best leave him to do it? I mean, I miss him too, of course I do, you know I do, but is it the right thing to do, to go and try to stop it? I don’t mean that you would mean to stop it, Merlin, but you know that sometimes you just do things, and then other things happen, and Elyan’s dead, I mean proper dead, and I’m not saying it’s your fault, no one’s saying it’s your fault, but Elyan is dead. My brother’s dead. I mean, what I’m trying to say is, you always have a choice about these things, Merlin, but sometimes the consequences, they happen to the people who didn’t choose. I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel.”

And Merlin, as he had done every time she’d skirted around the corners of this speech, never put quite so bluntly, said:

“I’m sorry, Gwen. If I could have saved him, I would have. I couldn’t. I can’t bring him back. I’m sorry.”

And he didn’t say, in every life, every one that I love dies. Everyone, including Arthur, including Elyan, and including you, and I’m left. Then it starts over, and I can’t bear it anymore. This bit doesn’t usually happen and please for the love of all that you find holy, get off my back and let me try it? Thanks. It wouldn’t have been fair, and it wouldn’t have been just and most importantly for Gwen’s sake, it wouldn’t have been kind, and so he hugged her, and readjusted her flower wreath concealing her iron circlet, crowning her as she stood at the gate to Tintagel House dispensing candy to sundry elves. Or children. He wasn’t quite certain which, and he wasn’t certain if it mattered any more. The Hunt would not ride tonight, and Gwen, the House, was as safe as the three of them could leave it, which should be safe enough. And he walked far enough away so that he wouldn’t have to hear Morgana dispense all the reassurance she could, which would never be enough, and he waved at Lance, back on the doorstep, watching it all happen.

The stone circle under the moonlight cast shadows across the grass, and Merlin said, as he’d been doing all day:

“This really isn’t necessary, Morgana. We could have just as well done it at the house,” 

And Morgana said, as she’d been saying all day:

“Shut up.”

And Gwaine said, “Does anyone need a little shot of liquid courage?” and took a swig, and Mordred skipped on the tips of his toes, as excited as he ever was to be doing something unexpected, which was a great deal.

And Merlin told them all to shut up, and reached into himself, and willed the wavefronts to overlap, the worlds to overlay in harmony, and took their hands, Morgana holding Mordred, and stepped forward into the beautiful hills of Tir Annwn.

The skies were a brilliant blue, dotted with clouds that promised rain, when rain was wanted, and clear skies when none was desired. There was a rainbow, arching the sky, stretching it wide and round with colour, from the blue down to the bright verdant spring green, of the trees that reached up to greet it. There were birds, great susurrations of them, flocking over the forests, and high above them all, there were dragons, jewelled in colour, Aithusa brilliant in white, soaring above them all reflecting in flashes back down on the clouds below. Yellow fields of summer wheat stretched below the hills, and red apples studded the orchards beside them. At the same time, flurries of snow crowned the mountains, and red leaf maples coloured their feet, and below, an opalescent lake simmered and shimmered, rippling concentric circles out in rhythmic patterns, breathing. When he’d been here last, if he recalled the country, it had been bare bones, all rocks, and trolls, and folk fighting over the roots that remained. It was doing well enough. It was doing better than it had. It was a land changed, for all that it was the same, as much changed as he was from the brash twenty one year old who thought he knew more than he did, to now, knowing that he only knew enough to be dangerous to himself and those that he loved, but changed for the better, and he wasn’t certain he could say the same about himself, not anymore. 

“It’s beautiful,” breathed Morgana. “I didn’t See this, not once. It’s beautiful, Merlin. I don’t know how you could bear to come back from it.”

Merlin thought, but did not say, one thing that makes crops grow so well, is blood, blood and bone, and where crops do not grow well, why, it is easy enough here to cast a glamour, to cover with beautiful gleaming emerald. It would have been cruel, and Morgana did not need cruel. He’d seen what had happened when Morgana encountered cruel, and she’d tasted enough of Uther’s cruelty in all her lives to be warped by it. Let her have the beauty, the sweet without the bitter for a change. 

Gwaine coughed. “I won’t disagree, my lady, that it is beautiful, but where are the folk? Where’s the castles and what have you? We’re lacking a destination, friends.”

Mordred kicked absently at a chunk of quartz, whistling a snatch of music half under his breath, which tumbled down, as the music flowed, and the quartz rolled down the hill, and came to rest on a yellow brick. Which lead to another yellow brick, and then the yellow bricks joined together, and met to form a path, and really, there was, it could not be denied, a yellow brick road, offering itself delightfully down the hill away from the stones, and Merlin rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, well done Mordred. Everyone remembers their safety rules? No one eats, except me. No real names, and no words of thanks. Think, before you speak. And then think again. If there’s a tin man around the corner, Mordred, I’m going to be pissed.” 

Mordred looked half embarrassed, but mostly pleased, as he put his foot on the yellow bricks, and then another tentative one, just in case the yellow bricks did something unusual, but the yellow bricks stayed as solid as any brick in any universe ever, and the party walked along it for want of any better direction to choose, in the same way as they had walked the streets in Penzance, or Norwich, or London. Which is to say that Mordred asked as many questions as he could, about everything that he saw, and Gwaine chewed on a wheat stalk which he stole from a field, and eyed off every being that they passed, and Morgana swept through it as if she were on roller skates, and worthy of everyone’s attention, and Merlin tried not to worry overmuch and failed. They were here now, and the die had been cast.

The yellow brick road passed through a charming village of dwellings built into the side of the hill, with chimney stacks, and little white picket fences, and doves in dovecots, but the persons living therein were not present to ask about quests, and second breakfasts, and how they felt about dragons, and most importantly, as Merlin kept reminding Gwaine, whether there was a castle, and a king, in the vicinity. High in the sky, there were floating islands, and wyverns, or similar, shimmering black seethrough wings darting between them, with people on their backs, too far away to talk to.   
There was a coastline that the road skirted along, with waves that never broke, but hung, all restrained violence and threat, and Mordred said that he’d like it if they could stop looking at him, and Gwaine laughed, at first, and then walked a little more quickly. There was a selkie, or at least, the remains of one, half eaten, and bones showing, on the rocks beneath the path, and Merlin, seeing Morgana’s face blanch, spoke sternly, and a smaller wave tripped up the stones, and washed the carcase away. The seagulls were thick at the point, and several followed them for some distance, even though they had neither chips nor icecream, and one of them was no seagull at all. Aithusa was there, always, high above, when he checked, and that was comfort to a small degree. 

The path lead them into the forest, and Mordred spoke excitedly about giant spiders, he had been reading both Harry Potter, and Tolkien, and let his imagination run away with him, but not a spider did they see, only toadstools, and treehouses of a size that indicated those that lived there were both bigger and significantly bendier than even Gwaine could imagine, but no one swung down into the glades through which they passed, or appeared, laughing on a branch and demanded that they surrender their money or their life. Merlin was aware, as was Mordred, as too Morgana, through shared glances, that they were not alone, but although they paused, and demonstrated clearly that they were unarmed, they went unchallenged, and unspoken to. 

In a clearing at the edge of the forest, they found that it was sunset, and decided to break camp. Morgana had, as always, in her inexhaustible bag of holding, supplies of bananas and protein bars, and Mordred had brought water, but no one, of course, had tents, or sleeping bags. It was Merlin who cajoled the moss and the bracken into bed shapes, and said that he wasn’t tired anyway and would take first watch, and it was pleasant enough an evening that no one really even remarked the lack of coverings, and one by one, allowed the excitement of the day to wear into the slumber and lassitude of the night, and left Merlin, hands on his knees, sitting with his back against a tree and staring into the night. Remembering parts of his first night, the first time, and reminding himself that he was older and wiser, and less reckless. Probably. At least, this time, he had a better feel for the dangers. Probably.

Waiting. 

It was in the dark of night, that she made herself known.

There were owls, several, perched in the trees about, talking to one another, and then at once, they fell silent.

The crickets fell still. Even the fire that they’d built, careful only to take the most definitely dead of all branches to build it, ceased sound.

“I wondered, my little falcon,” says Rhiannon, dismounting her horse, silver white in the light of the moon that hangs too high, too bright, too big in the sky, and treading her way lightly to the camp, “I wondered whether I would see you again, and I wondered how soon, would I see you again, and I wondered how you would have fared.”

Merlin’s hands crush the moss below him. She is cloaked in the feathers of the owls that sit in the branches overhead, patterned and brown, patterned and white, and her eyes are as large as any of them. 

“My lady Rhiannon,” says Merlin. “I have come to find the truth, if it is here to be found.”

Her laugh is as sharp as the fall of the hawk from the sky. “What is truth to one, may be something else to another. Tell me, Merlin, what is it that you seek.”

“My lady,” he says, pressing himself to a stand, his back firm against the tree. “I would ask of you a question, but I have nothing to offer you in exchange.”

Her eyes narrow, and her nose sharpens, he can see it, her shoulders draw up, and the cloak feathers itself out, she is large, and she is threatening.

“Then do not ask, Merlin. I would give you something, for your service in the lands above, if you would have it of me.”

Merlin feels the tree, alive, and solid under his hand. “I have had many favours from you, my lady. I do not ask for reward.”

“Oh, Emrys,” she says, “such formality. I know you too well for that, and you know me. You are no coarsely grasping fool to be taken in, and I do not wish for that. I have taken enough from you, I know that well enough, and had there been any choice other than that, I would have made it. But there was no choice.”

Merlin feels the bark cut into his hand. “There is always, my lady, a choice.”

Rhiannon is suddenly very close, and very sharply in focus. “Have a care, Emrys, if you wish to retain your own.”

“My lady,” says Merlin, without flinching. “I have no wishes, any more. I am here on the chance of a hope, and I would know, from you, if you are willing to tell me, whether you succeeded in your ventures. Did you make of him a king?”

Then he waits, heart in mouth, pulse in his ear, the bark rough beneath his fingers as an anchor.

Rhiannon smiles, teeth white in the moonlight. “I did.”

Merlin breathes out. “And does your king yet live, here below?”

“That is two questions, my little falcon. Follow the road, and do not ask for more.” Rhiannon’s smile stands still on her face, as she fades into the dark, and the owls swoop in her wake, silent and heavy winged, and Merlin feels the wind of them on his face. 

Mordred turns over in his sleep. Gwaine sits up. “Did I miss something?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Just the night. Just the owls.”

“Fine, then. Sit yourself back down, boyo, and sleep. My watch now,” says Gwaine, eyes twinkling with the fire’s flames, and Merlin sits, slowly, feeling his knees crackle with it. Though he does not think that he can sleep, the pulse still hard in his ears, when he next opens his eyes, it is morning, and Morgana is shaking them all to wakefulness. There is a small fire lit, crackling merrily, and she has tea, through some magic of her own, in her inexhaustible bag of wonders, and muesli bars. It’s all very girl scouts, all very Disney TM down to the tweeting blue wrens perched in the trees, watching them chew the oats over and over, and then peck enchantingly at the crumbs left behind.

“Follow the road,” says Merlin, when he’s asked which way they should go, and so they do.

Now, there are people, and persons who are not quite people but who are still persons, working the field. In a meadow blossoming with red poppies, endless red poppies, there is one such tending to the hives, in a mask of wicker, and white robed, who raises a hand of greeting, or warning, it is not clear which, as they do not speak. It is also unclear whether under the glove, there is a hand, and Merlin does not wish to investigate, not even when Mordred slows to look more closely. In between the poppies, at odd intervals, there are white bones, scoured clean by beasts, or wind, or water.

Then, there are small huts, sheds, that have gardens about them, and as they walk the road, the houses cluster, to form a village, and this time, there are people, who look at them as they pass. One stands in the path, with a hand extended, and this time it is a hand, although with one or two less fingers than one might have expected, and webbing, and when Merlin looks at the next, there are gills, barely visible, in between what might be scales, if viewed in the right p, and they are on the coast, after all. The person standing behind them has a different variety, and is slightly more blue tinged than the first. The person on the other side, by contrast, could blend with the crowds in London, a moustache, even, although not a very good one. It’s a little confusing, because when he was in Tir Annwn last, folks did not mix. Folks did not tolerate mixing. Folks who were inbetween were nowhere, unseen. Folks were made to know their place, and keep to it, and that with some vigour and violence about it. 

This is a peaceful village, no houses with fire marks, gardens growing with flowers, and painted brightly, painted with joy. He can feel it. He can feel, also, Gwaine trying not to stare, and Morgana drawing herself up, ready to say something, but it’s Mordred who speaks.

“Are we on the right path to the castle? It’s our first time.” 

Merlin tries very hard not to roll his eyes. Clearly, no one had ever managed to make it stick for Mordred that not all strangers were friendly, and helpful, and while Merlin’s glad for him, very, it is the very antithesis of the lecture he’d given, several times, about the need for care, and the need for sharing as little information as possible. 

The person draws themselves, up, gaining a full foot, and there’s a fin, Merlin thinks, straightening out their coat.

“It depends, stranger, on your intentions.” The voice is hoarse, and the person’s teeth are sharp and serrated.

Merlin spreads his hands wide, allowing a spark to jump between them, just in case. “When I came last to this country, good stranger, intentions were a thing kept private. We seek a court of grey, and our intent is not ill.”

There’s a collective relaxation that spreads across the crowd, and there is a crowd now, persons emerging from the houses, staring at their party. There are children, with frills behind their ears, shielding them from the sun. There are weapons being put down. He can’t tell which part of his speech soothed them, and that’s concerning.

“The castle is not far, but the grey court does not meet today. You may stay here, if you would, to wait.”

He can feel Mordred, bursting with questions. 

“Your hospitality is most gracious, but we will continue on.” Morgana’s voice is clear, and crystal, and he can see the heads of the smallest swivel to better hear her. 

“Since you have time,” says the one standing behind the leader, partly hidden by the fin. “And since you have power, we would ask for a boon.”

Merlin can feel Gwaine, and Mordred and Morgana looking at him. He’d been very clear on the need for clarity. 

“Ask,” he says, holding his hands clear and open, “and we will consider.”

The one behind steps forward, a person without gills, a person with hair not unlike Gwaine’s, flowing and smooth and brown, although their skin is mottled grey green, and their eyes are large, and small pupilled. 

“Our wheat field, which stands there on the hill, is failing. We have planted beans there in the past, and they failed too. Flowers will not feed our stock, nor give us ought for trade. If you can call forth the good, and cast out the bad, we will take you and present you well to the court.”

In Merlin’s head, he can hear Mordred excitedly talking it over with Morgana, crops are unequivocally a good, this is almost a moral imperative, he’s saying, to help, and Morgana’s reminding him that they’re in another country, and encouraging the roses in the Tintagel gardens is hardly the same as remedying soil infertility. She’s saying that very loudly. 

“We will look,” says Merlin, turning and looking at Gwaine, who’s fondling a fencepost and studying the paint on the wall of the nearest cottage like he wants to lick it, “and we will see if we can do anything for you, before we commit. What may we call you?”

“Ferd,” says the person. “And I will call you Emrys, for that is your name, is it not?”

Now, there’s a great deal of swearing in his head, and not from him. He very much wants to tell his friends to shut up. 

“Is it?” he says. “I had not thought to be remembered, good Ferd.”

The folk laugh, great bubbles of it, one of the children falling over on his back to do it better. 

“The land does not forget, Emrys,” says one of the others. 

One of the children calls, “That time he got stuck in the tree and couldn’t get out for years!” He’s sputtering with laughter, his frills waving to and fro.

“That time,” one of the people calls, “he was eaten by the serpent and had to climb out its bottom! I think of that every time I clean the privy.”

“That time,” says another, “he fought the world snake and put it to sleep so it wouldn’t eat us whole. Then flew home on a dragon and had to be thawed back to life. Brave as punch and twice as stupid for agreeing to do it in the first place!”

“That time,” another says, “he drank a sack of mead and slept with four different people in one night and called them all the same name and turned himself into a dragon. I think of that every time I have a hangover. Good old Emrys!”

Merlin is flushed, head to toe. It is true, he remembers, being stuck in a tree, and swallowed by a serpent and having to blast his way out, but he remembers being a dragon more than he remembers all the sex, and he only has distant memories of the world snake, and he’s pretty sure he didn’t do that one alone. He’s not quite sure how any of those stories are being told, or why it is that he’s been turned into a cautionary tale, known far and wide. 

Gwaine leans forward, and Merlin can feel the back of his neck flush up. “A dragon? Before or after the sex, you dirty, dirty boy?”

“Shut up,” says Merlin out of the corner of his mouth. “Just, just shut up. I was young and stupid, just shut up.”

“During?”

Merlin ignores him.

There are more stories being shared, but Merlin’s not listening to any of them. Not even to the one involving the cake and Rhiannon’s serving maid. 

“Which way to the field, Ferd,” says Morgana calmly. “We’ll see what we can do.”

There’s a little expedition of them, once folk collect themselves. Mordred’s still sputtering, somewhere in the back of his head, about all the things that Merlin did, or that people said he did, and Morgana’s at intervals telling him to shut up, but there’s an absence of commentary otherwise from her, almost a coolness where her presence usually sits. Gwaine’s eyeing him off, like Merlin’s suddenly going to sprout giant Kilgarrah style wings, or start humping a fence, and Merlin doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d done it entirely by accident, and Rhiannon had laughed her head off at his blue nose, and his red tipped wings, and how unbalanced he’d been, and refused to turn him back for a week. It’s not a memory he’s proud of. 

“I did have a life, here,” says Merlin at length, after he hears Gwaine bite off one too many questions. “I was here for years. Some days I did just, you know, have breakfast and work for Rhiannon. And then there were other days.”

Gwaine’s hand is over his mouth, but the chuckles are still audible. 

“Oh, just shut up.”

It takes what feels like forever to get to the field, and along the way, several more folk come up to ask Merlin for clarification as to whether in fact Rhiannon had killed him, or just whipped him to the bone that time he’d snuck onto the Hunt’s horses and ridden them into her wheat field, whether it had hurt, the time she’d turned him into a ball and used him for hurley, and whether Rhiannon had in fact made him water the World Tree with his own blood, that time when there’d been the great drought, and how long it was exactly that Rhiannon kept him a bird, and by the end of the road to the field, Gwaine’s not laughing anymore, he’s staring at Merlin like he’s mad.

“Gwaine, don’t,” he says pre-emptively. He can feel the tired now, in his bones, and he can remember the pain, splintering down his muscles. “I was twenty one, and I was desperate. Stupid with it. She has my allegiance, and I have my birthright, paid for it and that’s in the past. Everything grows up out of shit and blood. Did you think I was any different?” 

Gwaine’s hand finds his shoulder as they walk, claps him hard, but it doesn’t really register. He’s beyond embarrassment now, as they’ve arrived at the field, sickly half grown wheat stalks, heads drooping as if they’re full, but when Merlin touches one, it’s as dry and empty as a husk. 

“How long has it been so?” asks Morgana, and Ferd shrugs.

“Since before our written histories. We live, truly, in a golden age. There’s no war, no famine, no pestilence, no monsters that come at night, to take our children away. We live under a just and fair king, and he listens to his people. The taxes aren’t bad. Truly, our only complaint is this field. We would have surplus, and more, if it would plant well.”

“And you just keep planting it?” says Mordred. “Waste of seed, isn’t it?”

Merlin really wishes that he’d been firmer with Mordred. Or that someone had. 

“What my friend means to say,” says Merlin “is that perhaps the field could be put to other uses. Some sort of community use?”

“Yeah,” says Gwaine enthusiastically. “Games, and concerts, and those drunken orgies you were mentioning. Those sound good.”

Merlin really wishes he’d been firmer with Gwaine. Or that someone had.

“No,” says Ferd. “It’s too far from the water for us.”

“Perhaps,” says Merlin, “Gwaine, you could climb on the hill there, and look from above, if it would please you Ferd to take him?”

Ferd inclines their head, and beckons Gwaine away from the field, the villagers straggling after, save one youngling, who is then retrieved and taken away in the arms of a grown up, still watching Merlin, just to make sure nothing exciting goes unwitnessed.

Morgana’s arched eyebrow makes Merlin uncomfortable, but he puts it aside. There is definitely something wrong about the field. He’s focussing on that, when she hugs him from behind, and her arms are surprisingly strong in how firm the hug turns.

“When I was twenty one,” says Morgana from behind, where he doesn’t have to look at her face, “I thought my life was hard. My father and mistakes, didn’t get on, and I made so many, Merlin. So so many. I couldn’t sleep for it. I can’t imagine, no, I don’t want to imagine what you went through. I’m sorry you went through it alone.”

He pats at her hand, until she releases him, and then he turns. She’s crying, he’s not. 

“Look,” Merlin says eventually, once she’s wiped her face dry. “thanks. But let’s not, okay? You know as well as I do now, how magic works. There’s always a price. I paid mine. I can talk to dragons, now. I can do what I did, you know, back in the upper world. I paid a price, with my eyes open, and if I was sloppy about the terms of the bargain, and Rhiannon took advantage, that’s on me. It’s done, and it can’t be undone, and weeping over me won’t put bread on the table. Or wheat above ground. Thanks, though. Is Mordred still looking at me?”

“Yes,” says Mordred in his head. “I can’t believe I thought hotels were cool. You were a dragon?”

“Shut up,” says Merlin, turning, and throws a clod of dirt at him, which hits Mordred’s hastily cast shield and disintegrates. There’s then some foolishness from all three of them, and dirt flies happily, never touching anyone, but ending when Mordred, close to the base of the hill, touches the first part of metal and hisses.

“Can you,” says Mordred in his head, and Morgana and Merlin both nod. They feel out the earth beneath them, the shape of the metal clear, and then they combine their efforts, and draw it forth, and up, and out of the dirt below, and deposit what they’ve found on the path behind them. 

It’s a car, rusted, and smashed in on one side, ruptured fuel tank, but definitely a car, a Ford Prefect, once blue, now silvered and grey. Merlin’s not even going to try to make that make sense, although it does, cold iron, and fuel polluting the field, is going to have definitely resulted in some substantial loss of crops here below, no matter how the car found itself here. There’s skeletons in the seats, he can see, a family of four, and possibly a dog. Perhaps a large cat. All very dead. 

Not something he can fix. Mordred’s still looking at the car, as Morgana and Merlin start the work. There’s no spell for this, not really, that Merlin knows. It’s more a matter of speaking to the land, and reminding it of what it is, and what it can be. Mordred catches on, and is quicker about it than Merlin. It takes a while, and combined efforts, but the field is greened, and fresh in feeling, once they finish. Morgana’s slightly grey of face, Merlin can feel his toes tired in the dirt, but Mordred looks more energetic than when they started. 

“That was brilliant,” Mordred tells Gwaine, once the villagers come down. “Did you see it?”

“Aye, lad,” says Gwaine. “You did good. We’ll make a farmer of you yet.”

The villagers are slightly nonplussed by the car. And the skeletons in it. 

“Bury them,” Merlin suggests, and Ferd looks confused, at least, if those facial signs translate over into merfolk. “The people. Dig a grave, down at the end of the field, and bury them. Or have you got anything better to suggest?”

“Shouldn’t we send them back home?” says Gwaine. “There’ll be folk home who miss them.”

Merlin looks at the skeletons, devoid of clothes or identifying details. And back at Gwaine. 

“I’ll check the glove box, shall I?”

They watch, Merlin’s arms crossed, as Gwaine ransacks the car. If ever there had been wallets, or registration paper, they are long since rotted, and there’s no licence plates, long since rusted away. 

“Sometimes,” says Merlin, “things can’t be fixed. Things slip between the worlds, and they don’t get found again. Sometimes, people just die.”

They leave the car where it is, the villagers bury the skeletons at the edge of the field, and they eat the last of the protein bars, even though the merfolk offer steamed fish and roasted root vegetables, which smell most enticing, and they sleep in a hut, on piles of straw, in a group, like a pile of puppies, the better for warmth, and security in the middle of the night. Rhiannon does not visit. The children do, until late night stars swirl in the sky, and the children run out of stories to ask Merlin about, much to his friends delight, and his slight embarrassment. It seems an age ago, and he can’t bring himself to care terribly much anymore, not when the children are so focussed on the ones that are embarrassing and not painful, no one bleeds in the stories that they know.

In the morning, Ferd, as promised, escorts them along the last of the yellow bricks. The children follow along for the first part of the journey, but are forced into the water before a mile passes from the outskirts of the village by their parents, or at least by adults, who swim them back along the coast, and out of sight, calling for Emrys, until out of earshot. 

Then, they make good pace, and eat up the road like butter. Morgana may be lightening their loads by magic, but Merlin’s not going to ask in case she stops, or in case she’s not and then they feel too heavy again, and it’s before midday when they reach the castle gates.

The castle is tall and grey, and Merlin has no memory of it whatsoever. Which means nothing. 

He pauses, looking up at it, just to check. No, nothing. Ferd is watching, puzzled. Merlin draws in his group under the guise of straightening their clothes, shaking off the travel dirt, smoothing down Gwaine’s hair, Morgana’s waves to sit properly over her shoulders. 

“Morgana,” he says quietly, looking up at the grey stones, “in case anything happens, you shouldn’t hesitate to leave. Get out, go with Ferd, the merfolk owe you now. Get Mordred and Gwaine safe. Rhiannon will always come, if I call. I’ll owe her, but she’ll come. She doesn’t owe the rest of you anything, and Rhiannon keeps a close eye on her register. Get to safety, if things go wrong, and leave me here.”

Morgana frowns at him, her brow furrowed. “I Saw Arthur on the throne. I have nothing to fear from my brother, not in this lifetime.”

Merlin shakes his head, and looks up at the castle. “You saw someone who looked like Arthur. He’s been down here for years. This place changes things. It changes people. He may not be ours any more. He may not know us, even.”

Morgana frowns harder, and he touches a finger to her brow, pushing the furrows down, making her slightly cross eyed as she looks at it. “Shouldn’t I be giving you this speech?”

Merlin smiles, and makes sure his dimples are showing. “If there’s any Arthur left, I’m with him. This life and the next.”

Morgana’s smile reaches her eyes, even if Merlin’s doesn’t. 

“I mean it, Morgana. First hint of trouble, take the boys and go.”

“Hey,” says Gwaine. “I’m no boy.”

“Yeah,” says Merlin. “we all know. Keep it in your pants, sir knight.”

Mordred looks bemused, but then, it’s his default expression, so it’s unclear whether he’s offended. “Are we going, then?”

Merlin gestures towards Ferd. “Remember the rules, that’s all I ask.”

There is a portcullis, but it is open, and persons moving freely in and out, horses, ponies, kelpies, pookas, and only a few of those who enter and exit share a shape with Gwaine. Mordred, true to form, is enthralled. He tries to start a conversation at every step. With the castle guard who holds the gate, with the merchant selling trinkets and scarves at a stall inside it, with a selkie (possibly) who is drawing water from the castle well, and sluicing it down their back. Mordred wants to know every body, and every body to know him, and Ferd smiles at him as he does it. 

Merlin is frowning. It’s as if every time he mentions the rules, or caution, Mordred takes every possible step to flaunt them. He suspects, though, it’s more that Mordred is simply incapable of caution in the excited state he’s in. No one, yet, has taken offence, which is a minor miracle in itself. 

“Your friend,” says Ferd, “is glowing.”

“Yes,” says Merlin wearily. “He’s just full of beans, isn’t he.”

“No,” says Ferd, “I mean to say, he’s to my eyes, visibly glowing. In the shade here, he glows.”

It is true. But there’s no time, now, in the castle keep, to do anything about whatever Mordred has going on, as the doors are opening to the hall, and Merlin’s heart is suddenly in his mouth, his pulse beating hard in his ears.

The hall is exactly how Morgana’s vision showed it, uneven stones, grey, check. However, today’s there’s no queue, no throng of people waiting for an audience. There’s a grey throne, as she pictured it, but no one is sitting on it. Merlin feels slightly ill. 

“Ah,” says Ferd. “He must have finished early. I can ask his chatelaine if he is entertaining visitors, but he does not often do so. If you would wait?”

“The king,” says Merlin carefully, “is married?”

Ferd laughs, and laughs, and the echo is surprisingly discordant in the long hall. He bends over with it, holding his stomach. 

“No, I beg you,” says Ferd. “The king has never married. Nor does he intend to, he says, often, and loudly. In truth, there is no need for him to do so, should he not wish it. He ensures peace and prosperity, and the goddesses are pleased, and we do not see Herne in these parts more than we should. No, I speak of the officer who operates the business of the castle.”

Merlin feels his cheeks prickle with blush, that he wills back down. “Yes, by all means. Ask the chatelaine if he will see us. If he will see Emrys.”

Ferd bows, and makes his exit. 

The hall is so silent, he can hear his heartbeat again, loud and fast. Morgana pats Merlin on the shoulder, “Keep breathing.” She strides to the front of the hall, and stands for an instant at the foot of the platform, looking at the throne. It is tall, and dark, and grey, and somehow not quite all there, not all the time. 

She has her foot on the first step, when the door from the rear, behind the platform opens. Slams open, really. 

Arthur is there. Older, with the full beard, and sideburns that Morgana had Seen, hair touching his colour, bouncing as he comes to a halt on the platform and takes them all in with a quick look, the same as ever he would do on the stage at sound check, reading the room, a look so familiar it hurts. The clothes remind Merlin of the difference, rather than the performer’s black jeans and theatrical shirt, a guitar strapped across it all, he is wearing a tunic so dark, that it is functionally indistinguishable from black, and purple dark trousers, and a jacket of dark grey, silvered grey buttons holding it, and a sword of serious intent, possibly Excalibur, but Merlin’s not really looking at the sword right now. He takes the steps at a single stride, with a joyous shout, and holds his sister close in his arms for a second, pulling back to look her over, and darting a quick kiss on her cheek. 

“I never thought to see you again, my sister. Are you well? Do Lance and Gwen yet live?” 

His voice is richer than it was before, or perhaps it is that Merlin’s been too lost in the recordings to remember the original. He’s frozen with it.

“Arthur – oh goddess, I hardly know you with this beard! What would father say?”

Arthur throws his head back and laughs, a single ‘ha’, and back again. “Do you know, I have not thought of him for many a year. What a thing.”

“You’ve only been gone three months,” says Mordred faintly. “Gwen and Lance were fine when we left them.” 

“Mordred!” shouts Arthur “Gwaine? How the heck are you!”

As if released from a spring, Gwaine and Mordred bound forward and enfold Arthur in hugs, one from each side, short and tall dark heads bracketing Arthur’s blonde, and Merlin watches them, frozen to the floor, unreasonably happy all at once, it bubbling up from the soles of his feet, and lodging somewhere in his chest. Arthur is alive. Arthur is alive, and well. 

Then, Gwaine and Mordred are releasing him, and Merlin’s feet find movement is possible after all. He only trips once on the uneven cobblestones, and that’s because Arthur’s smiling at him, that big, stupid, smile. He loses his breath to it, but it doesn’t matter, because Arthur’s there to catch him, and hold him up. There’s a second, where he swears he’s accidentally stopped time again, holding each other’s forearms, like they’re swearing the vows they never got to above, Arthur’s eyes searching his out with serious intent, the brilliant blue unchanged, even if the face that frames them is different. Then Arthur’s mouth is meeting his, and he stops thinking altogether. Arthur is alive, and well, and his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a short chapter, and it turned into a journey instead. Merlin was very sad, he had things to work though, and at some point, he had to stand moodily in a wheat field. Check, check and check.
> 
> I think there's three chapters left, but it might be four. It depends if anyone else goes off into the fields on a frolic. I think Arthur might need to work off several centuries, or at least decades of being on his own. I'm pretty sure Merlin would be happy to help him. 
> 
> The image of Tir Annwn was brought to you by a memory I have of Northern Ireland, the mists seeping out over the grass, on one village green and verdant, with stone walls and down the other side, frozen and stark in the snow, no animal breathing. Opalescent lakes are brought to you by a trip I took to Greece in 1996, where we stopped at the top of a hill to watch the reflections of the light from the clouds, and I wondered whether we'd taken a turn wrong somewhere (we hadn't, Greece is just beautiful like that).
> 
> This chapter musically brought to you by (I was going to say Loreena McKennitt, and many other moody singers) but...actually, the Mardi Gras 2021 Spotify playlist. Which has nothing to do with my story. Happy Mardi Gras, everyone! May your homes be happy, wherever they are.
> 
> And To You I Bestow (Mundy, killer song, mixed into Romeo and Juliet soundtrack, a part of which was played over and again in the trailer for the X Files: Fight the Future, which I watched in the cinemas five times, and hence is engraved on my heart. Ah, Dana Scully...Fox Mulder...I want to believe that the truth is out there...)
> 
> Thanks all for taking this crazy voyage with me.


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